The Captain's Wife
by omishiloh
Summary: My tale is but a chapter in Arda's larger story. Here it is.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: A niggling idea that wouldn't quite disappear. Would that plot bunnies were easier to capture! Nonetheless, here is my attempt at one of my favorite themes – a Boromir-lives story.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

Ithil wanes, her silver gaze thin on the ground. The stars are better to see by this night, so a lantern I must travel with. I am no Elf to discern long distances easily, nor to read the stars.

My rucksack sits heavily on my shoulders, though little enough it carries. More, I think, the weight of what I am doing – slipping away from the City, as a thief might.

The White City! Long has it been held up in esteem; many are its legends. My story is but one in the larger tale, one small chapter in the story of Arda. I have yet to find whether it is read by the Valar or not; as of late, my life seems cursed by them.

Would I could hear the trumpets call my Lord Captain home! But once did I hear them, and him not yet my husband. Neither of us knew, honestly, the other. Names were exchanged, and that was all, in truth, though I had the advantage. Who could not know of his courage, his prowess on the battlefield? Who did not know the lyrics of the drinking songs, that told of his strength of arm (and more!)?

I knew, but I feared nonetheless. Arranged marriages are never easy, and mine is not. Or was…but I dare not let that trouble my thoughts, with such a difficult time ahead.

If my Lord Steward is to be believed, we are without hope – and therein why I must flee my home. War is coming, and evil has crept in. I have already known thus for some weeks, having escaped one early attempt on my life. Many wish do to me harm, my own sex included. Jealousy is rampant in the Court of the Citadel, despite its glittering.

Impulsively, I clutch at my stomach. Few enough knew who I carried, and why. Fewer still understood the chain of events that leads to my escape. I hope to keep that circle small, until I reach safety.

Safety! My snort fortunately does not carry as I pass quietly down the Circles. Safety there is not much of, in these days of War. Osgiliath fell, our last defence against the evil onslaught. The river is overrun, and I must be careful where I tread. No sword-maiden am I, though I know to use a dagger and knife dangerously.

Nonetheless, leave I must. It is not entirely my choice, but it is my chance at freedom. And survival. The oppressive airs of the City are not conducive to a healthy pregnancy, though I rue the loss of the Healing Ward. Minas Tirith is rumored to be among the best for care before birth.

My breathing rises as I pass the Outer gate. I have not been stopped thus far; many are leaving the City, mostly women and children. The cloak I wear, the one taken from my marriage, is not recognized. I am surprised, but then, my Lord Captain told me it had not seen the light of day for some time. Its midnight blue is well for nightfall, and its furred hood deep. My identity is secret, for now.

* * *

It remains secret through the night. I camp near a wain, full of a small family. A farmer, and his wife, and their three children: a daughter, and two young sons, still weaning from the mother (the elder cries when she pushes him aside to nurse the younger). Though I am watched warily, I cause no trouble. I cannot afford to make any.

My cloak serves as a blanket, my rucksack a pillow. The stars overhead are bright and of an impulse, my prayers lift up. I am no devout, but still I need any help. Whither quarter it comes does not matter until I can at last be reunited with my husband.

The night is chilly, but warmer still than the Lord Steward. I had said so more than once to my Lord Captain, and his response was a chagrined smile. "It is War that changes us all," was his reply the last time we spoke.

How long it seems now. Where does he camp? I ask the sky above. Of course, I get no response, but I amuse myself bitterly with imagining he is encamped with a warm supper, at least. Better than my lot.

 _O, my Captain! My love is with you_. As if I could give it to him, I stretch my hand toward the horizon. A kiss, for him who protected me. Honorable and chivalrous are two words that aptly describe his character. Loving, well, for my part, he has it. He had not spoken of any when he left, for his.

The day dawns slowly. Ever does the Shadow creep near, and the dawn darker. This morn, is seems almost red. I think somberly of the commonly held adage – _red morning, bloody night._ I ruffle the grass back into place; with any luck, my absence will not be noticed until the late afternoon. My schedule prior had me working with the Houses of Healing til' noon, at the earliest, and meeting with my Lord Steward for a brief afternoon tea.

I hate to ask, but I chance the leverage it will give me: "good sir, might I travel with your family for a time? I seek family, but know not whether they are here, or further ahead."

As I did no harm during the night, the farmer nods slowly; his wife is less friendly, but she raises no objection. I wonder whether to confide my pregnancy – I myself found out only when the head Healer approached me tentatively. Every subject to him must undergo rigorous monitoring; as with an absent monthly, he raised concern.

Her dark-eyed stare is enough to warn me off. Perhaps later.

I walk beside the wain, not willing to ride. I do not have forgo this pleasure, at least, not for some weeks. The countryside is almost pleasant, this side of the Anduin, but the further we go, the more grim our glances.

Farms are ruined; barns burnt, earth turned up where crops had been sewn. It explains the lack of abundance at local Taverns, but not the Steward's table. The wealthy can afford it – I stop the cynicism there. After all, until today, I was one. At least comfortably off.

I know the cloak defines me, as it is of a fine fabric. Maybe I will be assumed to be a nobleman's daughter; that will suit me. In the chaos of late, I can use a false name and not be suspicioned.

I could use the pet-name he gave, a name he gave on our wedding night. My hair is of a hue somewhere between brown and black. Indeterminate, really, but no less the lovely (in my opinion). Unable to decide what shade it was, he twisted it idly beneath his fingers and dubbed me, "Amariel".

I reminded him with a sharp gesture how "earthy" I could be. "A wife with humor!" he approved.

It will do.

Introductions are slow, but the farmer and his family warm up to me after I am able to coax the two sons to sleep. His name is Almog, and when I hear it, I see a smile finally pass over his wife's face. Some private joke, no doubt, but better than the surliness of last night.

We speak to pass the time, and to ease the grim reality around us. Their daughter, Methelwen, is twelve, of an age to pepper her parents with questions. I see certain wisdom in their responses, but the unease they share from time to time.

Children are not always a joy to raise, but it seems especially true in this moment. She turns to me and asks why I leave the City.

"To seek shelter from the War," I say, truthfully. "My family would not see me kept inside the City, where the fight will come."

Almog glances over his shoulder. "They are right, Amariel. It does not do for women and children to be in harm's way. We fight for your safety, and sleep better knowing you are free."

I doubt my Lord Captain sleeps well. His errand he hid not from me, not when he woke many a night from dark dreams, including the one with which he went to the Steward. Those nights were hard fought, and my imagination wanders into dim hope that somehow, he will survive whatever came of it.

I ask Methelwen, in turn, "What is it that drives you from the City?"

She shrugs. "We are going to our kin in Dol Amroth. My Lady Princess is a distant cousin, or so I'm told."

Her mother shakes her head. "Distant, indeed. We may yet have to seek home elsewhere, if the Lord Prince spurns our plea. We share great-grandmothers, but naught more."

Dol Amroth! That is well. If there is any place my Lord Steward would not dare step foot, it is that fiefdom. His late wife's family holds him in contempt; loyal they are to Gondor, but no more. It is incredible the gossip that pervades the Court, but my Lord Captain, having served with Dol Amroth's Prince, confirmed this information.

For the first time in many days, I am comforted. I must be doing the right thing if by pure happenstance, I land among kin of the Prince.

My curiousity is sparked for sure. "Kin? But farmers you seem!"

Chuckles all around. "That we are, but we do so by choice. My wife" – Almog gestures with his shoulder – "loves good-tilled earth. A _perian_ she must be!"

She swats him lightly, and I see the good-hearted nature of their marriage. I can feel wistfulness show on my face, and I have to turn to blink tears away.

* * *

The next few days are thus similar. We become friends, Almog and his family and I. I take turns with the children, allowing Rhea – she, at last, gave her name – needed rest. Almog pushes himself to guide the wain, and once I spot him limping. It occurs to me suddenly why he is not stationed with the other men in the City – all are necessary to fight.

We are joined by many others seeking the road to the sea-shore, including Swan-Knights on patrol.

I have to duck my head anytime they pass. Of them all, I know of one or two for certain my Lord Captain was close companions with. I do not know what he wrote of me, but until we reach the castle, I must not be recognized.

Ere we reach the city limits, we are covered in dust. Despite clouds overhead, it has not rained, and the very air seems humid. Less heat, but – heavy, as if pressing on the chest. I long for a bath, but do not hope overmuch. We are not the only refugees seeking asylum.

I am nervous. Will I be accepted here? Whom do I trust? Is the Amrothian court similar to the Court of Denethor?

Most of all – where can I seek refuge for myself and the heir to the Captain General of the armies of Gondor?

* * *

For clarification, I took "Amariel" from a well-known website that translates names - it means 'earthy'.

 _-to be continued-_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: A little artistic license here, but what fanfic author doesn't take mild liberties?

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the invention of Amariel. Neither is this for profit, but for pleasure.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

We enter the seat of Dol Amroth at last. All around us, sea-folk are busy – calling orders, shouting for baskets, carrying crates of unusual creatures I have never seen before. Beside me, Methelwen's eyes are round, and from the amusement on Rhea's face, mine are, also. Her earlier wariness has melted away with my continued persistence in looking after her younger sons. The few days of relative rest have done much to improve her gaze on me, and for that, I am thankful.

 _Perhaps not so forsaken by the Valar,_ I muse, but before I can fall into a reverie, we are led into a full view of the harbor. I cannot help my own astonishment – the sea is much more vast than I could have imagined.

I have lived near the Anduin my whole life; the smell of fish is familiar enough, as are the keenings of the river-gulls. The sea, however - no word can I place to it. It is grey and continually moving, and I wonder at what it must be on a full summer day. Breathtaking, to be sure.

And the ships! They do not compare at all to the merchant ships of the City, few there are. The sea-farers here know their business; the wood appears to be light, and from the one coming into port, quick to sail. Despite the oppressive heaviness, they are able to turn adeptly.

I am brought to attention when someone shouts, "This way!" A Swan-Knight, tall and stern in blue-and-silver livery, is guiding a queue of people. Some go right, some left, and it is not until we reach him, we know where to turn ourselves.

Up close, the Knight's face is not so stern – a scar that stretches from temple to nose pulls at the cheek and makes it appear he is scowling. Nonetheless, his eyes are friendly and almost compassionate. I catch a murmur, "So many! So many from the City!"

He stops Almog and Rhea patiently. "Do you seek kin or the Court?" he asks, hand on his sword-piece. Almog answers, "We seek both; we are said to be kin of my Lord Prince Imrahil."

The Knight scrutinizes him carefully. Almog reaches into a pouch I had hitherto not noticed, and produces a stone pendant. I cannot see the details, but it serves well for the Knight, as his eyes widen and eyebrows raise.

"You may leave your wain here," he says. "It will be emptied and your possessions taken up to the guests' wing. Wait there, and you will be attended to." He nods to a lurking page, who takes hold of the wain and its plodding horse.

Rhea squeezes Almog's arm, in relief, I think, before picking up her youngest. Both mother and daughter curtsey to the Knight after Almog bows (as he is able), but before I can fall in behind their steps, I am stopped myself. Methelwen nudges her mother and they pause up the path.

When Almog turns back, they gesture him ahead, with his sons. They are safe enough in the limits, and the road to the palace is wide, and well-maintained. I can see a variety of other Knights and squires guiding horses and carts. The hum of conversation buoys my hope that I will be unnoticed, but from the doubt upon this soldier's face...

I stifle a curse, and I am drawn into wistfulness, and then nervousness. I do not know if this is a Knight known to my Lord Captain.

"Miss," he says uncertainly, no doubt thrown off by my cloak. "Do you seek kin or the Court?" He peers in at me.

My hands tremble at my side. I could risk it. The Valar have looked after me thus far…and as my Captain would say, great risk with great gain.

I pull back my hood, the fur brushing lightly against my cheeks. What does he see, I wonder, a woman or a girl? For it is as a girl I feel, taking this foolish venture. I will be caught. The Steward will drag me back to the City where he can watch my every move. If I had freedom before, I will not at all, if returned thence.

I meet his gaze with trepidation.

If I say kin – which, by marrying into the Steward's family, became a cousin of the Amrothian rulers – I chance meeting with the Prince informally. I had seen him at a distance, no more, but he was rumored to be kind. If I answer Court, then I can petition the whole family formally, and gain legitimate protection from the Steward's wrath.

I can only hope my surmises are correct. My escape from the City did not lend time to research anything more than whether I could make it past the Gates. I packed as lightly as I could manage, accounting for my condition. Everything else has been improvised.

For the first time, I realize the enormity of what I have done.

* * *

"I seek to petition the Court," I reply. "I seek audience with the Prince or his heirs."

My heart beats fast. Surely this is not a Knight of my Captain's company, or he would have –

"My Lady!"

Not the Knight present, but another one approaching rapidly. I have been made known. I turn to flee, yet the press of the crowd prevents me from moving more than two paces.

Well, I chose my fate by leaving.

"My Lady Captain!"

This Knight is broad in the shoulder, his livery darker than that of the others. Too, above the Swan embroidery is a series of Seven Stars. His carries no sword; instead, a quiver, and a bow is slung over his shoulder.

I shake my cloak back completely. If I am known, then hiding suits me no more.

Callused fingers reach for my hand and he kisses it courteously. "Lord Boromir sent no word his Lady wife would grace us with her presence."

Whispers. So many whispers from around me. And they travel fast. I wince at the astonishment upon Rhea's and Methelwen's faces. The former narrows her eyes, and yanks her daughter forward. No doubt she is angry at my deception. I try to mouth an apology, but they are gone into the throng.

If they are angered, Almog will be as well. He might see it as taking advantage. Nor, I suddenly think, does it reflect positively upon the Steward, that a member of his Court makes her way unknown among the people.

"No, he sent no word, that is true," I say. And it is. "I came of my own accord. The Lord Steward –" I hesitate, knowing I tread a thin line between truth and a lie – "the Lord Steward desires to ensure the loyalty of his fiefdoms."

Plausible, but not anywhere near the reason why I am present. I am stretching my responsibilities.

"Come, then, and be welcome. I am Danaran, of the Guard of the Prince, and friend to the Lord Boromir – and his wife." He tucks my hand in his arm, and the crowd parts.

"How might a Guard of the Prince know of me?" I inquire, genuinely curious. To date, I had not met anyone of the shore-people. Meetings were closed to women, and any attempt I made at eavesdropping led to tension between my Lord and his father. After the third violent argument, I stayed away from the council's doors.

"We served early together, at the first battle of the Anduin," he answers, face shadowed in memory. "He spared me from death from an arrow's poison. He is a good man. I am fortunate to meet the woman he wrote so often of."

"Indeed he is, and my thanks," I say. We do not speak further, he apparently lost in memory, and myself in dread at recognition. A courier will be sent by evening, to note the safe arrival of the Steward's emissary.

The whispers continue as he guides me up to the palace. Despite the sweating I am doing, now that the orc is loosed from the sword, I can appreciate the wild beauty of the harbor and the veritable fortress that sits near it.

Pale stone – neither white nor gray, but some cloudlike color in between – form many arches in an exterior courtyard. Two guardtowers on either side are manned by at least two soldiers, who go to and fro steadily. The courtyard is bustling, much like the paths below. Only here, marketplace hubbub seems to take preeminence.

I wonder at that, but then Dol Amroth has been rumored to be considered the last safe port of the country. No doubt due to its lack of proximity to the Shadow.

"What duty does my Lady Captain seek of the Prince?" he asks.

"I seek audience with him, nothing more. At least," I add, "nothing more I can say here."

"I see," he responds gravely. "Many a counsel has been sought of him, and more of us march to war every day. But if this is truly a message of the Steward, then I will bring the Prince directly."

He leaves me in a parlor, taking my rucksack with him. I see it passed off to a maid, who nods at me as she leaves. The room is comfortable, with a circular window pushed open. Small couches dot the room, and I sink into one gratefully. It is cushioned with a silken fabric; a result of the trade at the port.

I am left to myself for the first time in a week. Though the crowd below is noisy, it is nothing to the thrum on the road, or the shouts at the harbor itself. My ears ring with the quiet, and I have to steady myself on the arm. It would be so easy to fall asleep...

* * *

"My Lady – Amariel," says a soft voice. "I hear you bring word from the White City."

It is the Prince, surveying me with kindness. He is weathered, and not dressed for a formal meeting, but then, this is not meant to be one, I mentally sigh. Some hot water would have been appreciated, or a chance to change into my other dress, that is marginally less dusty.

I rise, but keep a hand on the couch.

"My Prince," I curtsey. "I thank you for using my familiar name. I understand my lord husband wrote to you also of me?"

"He did," the Prince smiles. "I am sorry to have missed the wedding. We at the coast are besieged by Corsairs and the tide of battle pulls us all."

"Including my husband," I murmur.

"Yes, including him. I know he rode north, but on what errand, neither he nor his brother say. Did he speak to you of it?"

I confirm the question. "It is that in part why I seek your counsel."

"You?" he answers. "Not the Lord Steward?"

I grimace. "How long can you be spared, my Lord Prince?"

* * *

 _-to be continued-_


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: In which we peek into her marriage.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's estate, neither am I making money off this story.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

Not long for the moment, but he suggests a supper conversation, an informal one with the family. I am uneasy – I do not know how much gossip there is within the Dol Amroth palace, but if the Lord Prince is comfortable sharing counsel with his immediate kin I will not gainsay him.

In the meantime I am led to a spacious bedchamber by the same maid who took my rucksack. A wide poster-bed – similar to the one I shared with my Lord Boromir, but lighter of wood and with a curled headboard – is set against a wall that has three garlands of shells, the middle being the largest.

At my questioning look, the maid says, "They are believed to bring luck, health, and fortune. Valar knows we need it!"

"Indeed," I agree fervently. Upon further examination, I can see why the belief would arise; the shells are striking, looking to be made of the sunset; in hues of yellow, orange, and one or two have subtle shades of pink. They are vibrant against the heavy clouds seen outside the window (like the parlor, open to catch what little breeze there is).

"If you wish to cleanse yourself before supper," the maid says, gently tugging me from the shells, "there is a small water-closet available. Towels are here, and soap here, and I can return with hot water, if you like."

The water closet is not large, but it will suffice. Anything to wash the dust and my nervousness away.

"If it will be no trouble," I say, "a hot bath is something I have been longing for."

"It will be ten minutes or more, but we can do it. The city of Dol Amroth welcomes the Lady Captain of the White City."

I flush as she leaves. Word travels faster within the White City. And this name, Lady Captain? Clearly my husband thought of me as something of an equal. Not Princess, but soldier-like. A small bloom of hope rises, and I dare to dream that the next time we speak, he might pledge his love for me.

While I wait, I strip down to my chemise, where I can lay on the bed without smudging the covers. With my gaze set on the shells I drift, thinking of why he might name me thus.

* * *

Two months we are married. I have marked the days within a tiny journal, enough for perhaps twenty words per page. It is not much, but I do not consider myself a prolific writer, so it meets my needs. In any case, it allows me to follow my cycles.

No child yet. For that, I am relieved. I can continue my duties as his wife, not be confined to the responsibilities of a would-be mother.

Many of the citizens of Minas Tirith know little of what a wife of the Captain-General might do. This, perhaps, because women in our culture are recorded mostly as ornaments, our dresses occupying our thoughts, and gossip otherwise.

For my part, I was raised inside the Court not as an ornament, but an aide. I accompanied my father to his business with courtiers – his goods from the deep South are much popular. Exotic fabrics, feathers, jewelry, and little trinkets. He pays for them out of the coffers of his father's father, filled in the past by healthy agreements with the Haradrim and other foreigners of repute.

Though trade these days are slower, there is still enough to merit frequent visits to Court, and so, I learn numbers, trade agreements, and how to broker a fair deal. At my marriage breakfast, I am gifted a ledger and quill set.

Which become used when I am laid out my charges by my husband, in his study, a room well-suited for paperwork. Two desks there are – "brought in when I married you" – and chairs that, while not comfortable, can be sat in for a time. A hearth also provides needful warmth in the cold, or can sit idle during the heat of the summer. A wall of books, too; at my surprised glance, he says, "I _do_ read, even if no-one will believe it."

"I am the Captain-General," he continues somberly, "and my wife must be able to keep up with me. I need all the numbers of the patrols: their wounded, their –" he pauses, but after a close examination of my steadfast face –"dead, and what supplies they seek."

Additionally, I balance messages from the individual soldiers. Some seek a reminder of home (like a ribbon from their sweetheart), while others a letter. Still others request treats, like oranges from the southeastern provinces.

I have a good chuckle over _that_ request, because accompanying it is a note from the patrol leader, _He spoke of the oranges as a man might of a lover. I have had one once, and I can see why it is tempting!_ A sly glance at my husband and I think of what might be done with sweet, sticky juice.

Aside from paperwork I must host the Steward's Table once a week. It is a feast at which all denizens are welcome, from the farmers of the field, to the highest courtier – as the latter is my husband, I do not mind. At the feast, I preside as the Lady of the Court, a position I later discover is usually held by the wife of the King.

For the rest of my time, I can choose what I wish, as long as it benefits the City. It is this second month when I discover my predilection for the Healing Houses.

A bright afternoon, hot, and I seek refuge in the Citadel gardens. Here it is where herbs of all kind are kept, some for eating, some for medicine. I wander freely. My husband is busy visiting the barracks, he and I having parted ways after the usual morning's work.

"Find something, Amariel," he says, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face. "I would not have it said my Lady is lacking."

I am not, I want to protest, but it dies on my lips as I notice the large circles beneath his eyes. He did not sleep as soundly as myself, apparently. I reserve my words for later, and we part with a semi-affectionate kiss.

I sigh. _Perhaps in time love will come_. _At the very least, I am not unhappy_.

I pace the gardens' paths aimlessly, admiring the neat, orderly rows. Some of the greenery seems familiar. I follow one plant-bed to its end, where I discover a wooden door tucked into a corner. No-one but me is around, I confirm with a glance, so I pull it open and enter.

Ah! So these are the Healing Houses. I am at the end of a long corridor bathed in sunlight. On either side, many doors; and healers, male and female, bustle about in soft robes. I can hear groanings and chatter, and distantly I am reminded of a Court ball.

 _It is like a dance_. The healers move efficiently: no step is wasted, neither do they run accidentally into one another. Practice, I suppose, making my way down the hall. Not much catches my eye or ear, at first, but a glimpse into one room peaks my interest.

An exasperated man stands in front of a frantic mother and her two children. The one, a young boy, is scrambling all over the place. He makes galloping noises as he does, while his sister is prone upon a cot. I can see her dark hair spilling over the edge.

"If you could but hold him still!" he says to the mother, and the mother does try. She lunges this way and that for her son, but he evades her grasp neatly.

He runs toward the door – and me.

I plant my feet and skirts apart and because he did not look, laughing as he was at his mother, he runs right into my legs. He topples over, and the mother is able to scoop him up.

"Thank you," she says, gratefully. When she is able to meet my gaze, her eyes widen and she sweeps into a curtsey.

"My lady!"

"Peace," I say. "I am here seeking employment of an afternoon. Aught I can do?" The latter addressed to the equally-grateful healer who is finally able to bend over the little girl. He does not look up as he answers.

"Occupy the boy. He is distracting me." His voice is not unkind, but it is brusque, and both the mother and I flinch. She hands him over, trusting that my title, apparently, is enough merit my goodness.

I will not disobey a healer, and one who has such a serious look about him.

I take the boy to the gardens, where he and I pretend to be horses. The gardens are private, and as the ladies who wait upon me are seeking me elsewhere, I am not ashamed. It reminds me of the brother I had, before he died.

Half-an-hour passes, or maybe more, before the mother returns. She has the look of tears about her. Concerned, I raise an inquiry.

"Fever. It returns. I already lost my eldest to it," she says. "My daughter burns now. We hope, but little."

Remembering my brother, I lay a hand to her shoulder. "All be well, then," I respond, invoking a blessing. She thanks me, taking her son by the hand, leaving me to consider.

An unexpected ache settles in my chest. I want to bring comfort. After all, all the people of the City are my people now. Surely my lord husband would not protest my assistance in the Houses?

I find myself, at the end of the afternoon, earning a place of sorts. The same healer who tended the girl sought my aid many times more for errantry, and we both learn my presence as the Captain-General's wife to be heartening to his patients. Other of his fellow healers have taken note, as well, and quite a gathering is there as I go from room to room.

After I have to sternly remonstrate another young child from bothering the healers, I hear a chuckle. I see a familiar set of armored legs, and I rise from kneeling to note my lord Boromir's amusement.

"A captain!" the child says, in awe. He immediately straightens his back and salutes.

"Not just any captain, but _the_ captain," I tell him. "This is your Lord Boromir, son of the Steward." I see approval in my husband's eyes.

The boy bows low, and recalling my own place, I incline my head.

"Your work is well-done," my husband says. "You are like unto a healer yourself. Do you appreciate the time spent?"

"Mostly," I admit. "Even though I must at times order about those who might otherwise be running amok."

"Bossy, more like," mutters the boy, impolitely and within range of my husband's ears.

My lord Boromir bends down. "Bossy, or more like a captain?" he asks of him, seriously. I stifle my own amusement.

Wide-eyed, the boy answers better. "A captain, lord. A captain of the Houses! Forgive me, I meant no disrespect…she just reminds me of my fussy aunts." He screws up his eyes and nose in distaste.

At that, my lord and I both laugh. A warm glow seeps in my belly, and for the very first moment in our marriage, I can see us having a love together.

The ground suddenly shakes beneath my feet. Neither the boy nor my lord notices. I start to speak, hearing a strange voice, "Get you up, miss! Your bath awaits!"

* * *

Oh.

I have fallen asleep again. I open my eyes to see night almost on, and some of the oppressive air lifted by a breeze from the waters. The shells chime where they sway, and I am led to the tub in the water closet.

The maids are helpful and kind, taking my dress and chemise without comment on their state. Doubtless they were used to traveler's wear.

The hot water does much to soothe my anxiety and wistfulness. When one of the maids offer to clean my hair, I take the offer, and feel even more at rest. Wonderful, what a simple bath can achieve. I breathe deeply in the fragrance of the soap – lavender, according to the maids – trying to summon the courage I need to face the Prince and his family.

* * *

 _-to be continued-_


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Present tense is hard, but the Lady Captain is telling her story as she sees fit. I am merely a scribe.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my Amariel, and even she is inspired by the great Tolkien Estates. None of this is for money.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

"I cannot wear this!" I protest, leaning over the beautiful dress on the bed.

While I was soaking in the tub, other servants had brought forth a silver-and-blue dress of a silken fabric. Its sleeves are short, capped with lace, and it looks marvelously light, almost Elvish to my eyes.

With it, a necklace of what appears to be pearls and a thin circlet with a larger pearl hanging – if worn, the pearl would land between my eyes.

"Our Prince thought you might wear something as befits your station," one maid pipes up, from where she is sorting through a large wooden chest. "We have quite a few dresses around, as the Princess Lothiriel has lately returned from a visit to Rohan. She does not mind, either."

"No, indeed! Not since she has been able to catch the eyes of the Rohirrim! A beach filly for the mountain stallion!" snorts another.

She is hushed by the others, all side-ways glancing at me. In their uniform of black skirts, white overlays, and grey caps, I am reminded of gulls. I try to hide my smile, at the same time wondering what type of bird that makes me.

"You will hear nothing from me. I am not a gossip," I say. Relief goes around the room as audibly as the click of the clasp of the chest. Two more dresses are laid out for me, both just as fine as the silver-and-blue.

I resign myself to wearing the Prince's colors. The other two dresses do not fit my peach-complexion, being much too bright. The maids tie and fasten as needed, and I am grateful at the lightness and quickness of their work. They know how to dress, here in Dol Amroth. Gone are the heavy fixings of the White City's Court.

But then, I surmise, one could die of heat if they wore similar trappings on the coast.

My hair is braided and put up, held with many hairpins. As the circlet is also pinned, and the necklace tied, a mirror of polished steel is brought forth.

I am awestruck at my reflection. Though what I wore in Minas Tirith was fine in its own right, this style suits me much better. My face does not appear nearly so round, and I can even make a claim to elegance.

I search my expression for any hints of the nervousness I have felt. I see some, but much is cloaked by confidence and awe of the dress. I have learned from my husband, some, how to mask uncertainties, but he is much more skilled at it, and his brother even more so, he told me once.

The freckles that normally spread across my face when outdoors are indeed present, with a fresher feeling to them, thanks to bathing. Though I am darker somewhat from my travel from the city, I am not so dark as to be tan. A temporary coloring, in any case; after a day or two indoors, it will fade.

I do not request make-up, and it is good I did not, for a distant bell rings. "That is the supper call," says my first maid. They bob, and leave, leaving their names at the door – Thurneil, Wendlywn, and the maid who has attended me the whole while, Elenaor.

A moment later, and the Prince himself is at my door, dressed in a loose silver tunic, blue leggings, and fine leather boots. His hair, longer than mine, is pulled back by a large circlet denoting a pair of intertwined Swans. "I will take you in. You don't look familiar with the palace, and in the meantime, I can see for myself the beauty Boromir claims of his lady-wife."

"Sweet words! And I thank you for them," I answer, blushing and laughing. If nothing else the Lord Prince Imrahil has a manner to put one at ease.

He takes me down the hall and around several corners to a large dining room. Not a Great Hall, but one with a view of an inlet off the harbor. I see many birds flying, and some creatures swimming I cannot identify in the growing night – porpoises is my best guess. The clouds have faded, leaving behind meek starlight, and a sea as dark as I imagine the wrath of the Steward to be if – _when_ he discovers my absence.

"The Lord Imrahil and the Lady Captain of Gondor," calls a herald, hidden in an alcove. I fight an assailment of butterflies in my stomach. We step down a few steps to the main floor, where two large tables and many chairs and cushions sit.

Informal, indeed. The tables and chairs, though stylish and sleek, do not match, and the cushions are being reclined upon; the Lord's kin, presumably. Three men, and a young woman, and others whose backs are turned.

The Lord Steward, I reflected, has a much more rigid manner of feasting. His Hall is black-and-white marble, and the tables of an intimidating mahogany. Each guest has a pre-arranged chair, identified by formal hangings that contain the house insignias.

His children do not rise as we approach the tables, but we do garner their interest. Of note is the young woman I espied earlier – she has a wide mouth, ripe for laughing, and her eyes are as silver as any fine jewelry I have seen. Her hair is smoothly held back by a pearl net, and her manner graceful as she nods to me pleasantly.

Numenorean blood, I think. I knew the legend well enough, but never confirmed for myself the rumors of it being in the shore-folk. With her height, and that of her brothers and father, there must be some strong strain of it. Or Elven; the Lord Prince gives me an uncanny look as I pick carefully at the food.

"We are kin here," he says, quietly. "There is no need for nerves."

I am reassured a little.

Mindful of my dress, I settle on a cushion. The days of wain-traveling has my joints ache, and cushioning is a relief. With my feet stretched forward, I must look like a child, but it is the most comfortable I have been since my lord Boromir rode to the north.

"Let us say our graces," says the Prince, and I bow my head. Moments later, we eat.

I have eaten fish before, and found it heavy. This time, the herbs and spices are light and tangy, and my stomach does not protest. Not does it protest the goblet of juice given to me by a servant. No wine, I think wistfully, glancing at the pitchers.

My foregoing the wine is noticed. The Lord Imrahil sets his fork down and beckons for the family to gather closer. He does not ask me to move, but rather those to gather around me. His gaze is knowing, and my hand trembles slightly.

"What news of the city, Lady Captain?"

At least he starts with an easy question.

I swallow a large gulp of the juice, fortifying my suddenly dry mouth. "We are at War for sure," I say. "my lord husband has ridden north, seeking an answer to a dream. His brother, the good lord Faramir, fights with his captains in Ithilien, but the land grows overrun with orc and men of the deep Southern reaches."

I set aside my plate, no longer as hungry. "The Lord Steward grows ever wary. Audiences with him are few and far-between, but despite this, he knows much of the doings of the Dark Lands. No-one knows how, including my husband."

My eyes lower, and I trace the embroidery of the cushion. It, like so much of the decoration here, is lovely, capturing the likeness of the seas well. "My Lord, may I speak freely here, among your kin?"

He knows what I ask. He dismisses the servants, and other guests, instructing the family is not to be disturbed the rest of the evening.

Before I can continue, however, he raises his hand. "Elphir, Amrothos, Erchirion, I have your word that what is spoken of here does not pass your lips elsewhere? And Ivriniel will hear from me personally, once she is rested."

The three men, who are sitting, reclining, and leaning against a table, all nod in assent, turning their attention to me fully. "Lothiriel, especially, this does not travel to Court. Do you understand?"

She answers. "Of course, Father." Her eyes are intent on the fruit, but I shiver at the tone. She looks like a flower of the coast, but she has a spine of steel, I'd wager.

I take a deep breath and clasp my hands to keep them from trembling even more.

"In truth, the City's days are dark. Many flee the encroaching Shadow, myself included…though there is more I flee. The Lord Steward is grim, wearing armor wheresoever he walks. His solders are grimmer, as if there is no hope.

"And there might not be. Visions, rumor goes, plague the Steward. He told me of late to beware any who might take a meal with me. I did not listen to him at first, but three weeks past, I was nearly poisoned to my death."

Lothiriel gasps, and drops the fruit. "Poisoned? By whom? I have friends among the White Court. I know of none who would bear harm to the Captain's wife."

The Lord Imrahil steeples his fingers. "There are many who seek the end of Gondor," he answers his daughter. "More who would attempt to do so for the sake of greed or destruction. Continue, please."

His sons are truly intent upon me; I find their gazes unnerving, and I clasp my hands so hard they turn white.

"As if the poisoning were not enough, the Steward watches my every move. He nearly accused me of treachery when I sought the Wizard Mithrandir upon his last visit. I tell you truly, I seek no higher than my rank. Being a Captain's wife is challenging enough in peace, much less the war that haunts us now.

"Mithrandir, bent upon his own errands, only met with me once, and was unable to help. I told him my lord husband was not sleeping well, dreaming of dark shadows and desires. He directed me instead to the Healing Houses. I spend – spent," I correct myself, "mornings there, assisting the healers. What I could have brought from them I already did, and still the dreams bothered him.

"Some months past, my lord husband dreamt of a wave overwhelming, and a riddle. The lord Faramir dreamt it also, but their father deemed my lord husband the worthier to ride north."

"This is ill news," says one of the sons. "If the Steward suspects his own married daughter of treachery, deep must he be in darkness."

"Faramir wrote to me of the same dream," says the Prince. "He did not say aught of the Steward's opinions."

"There is yet more – Elphir, I deem?" Elphir lifts a hand, respectfully. "My lord husband wrote to me last that he was to join a company, a secret company. Their specific errand he neglected, but did say he knew not when he could get word to me again. He also wrote that he may have found an answer to the riddle he had been seeking, that he found the Halfling bearing something akin to Isildur's Bane."

I blink tears back. That last letter was really the last I had heard from him, now three months gone.

"Since then, I too have dreamt badly. I dream vaguely of swordfights and a flaming fire, like unto an eye that would see into my spirits. I know naught what to make of the dreams, only that they fill me with a dread I have never known before.

"I do know that some days hence I was told I myself am bearing something of importance. And it is for this reason, I flee my home, the White City."

Imrahil's sons exchange glances, Lothiriel looking puzzled as well, and the Prince himself is nodding slowly, as if he knows what is to come.

"I carry the Heir to my Lord Boromir. The heir that, should Denethor and Boromir both fall, would supplant Faramir of any right to the Stewardship."

* * *

 _-to be continued-_


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Yes, I've emphasized that she is carrying the Heir. But it is an important point, and the start of her own battle in the War. Also, I had to go back through fix a major inconsistency – Amariel's name! In my carelessness, I had it spelled two different ways. That is fixed now!

Disclaimer: None of it. I own none of Tolkien's beautifully magnificent world.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

Stunned silence greets my pronouncement.

I, too, am stunned in my own way. Not since my consultation with the Head Healer have I even spoken of the child I bear. He was unsure of how far along, but given my lord's absence, I am well into my third or fourth month. My notebook, should I find it after the maids after unpacked my rucksack, will have the definite date.

Because of the recent stress, I do not show much. Eating is difficult these days, not least because I have nausea in the mornings.

"But that is good news!" cries Lothiriel, breaking the silence. "We have an heir at last!"

I shake my head, the tears finally escaping any attempt I can give at preventing them. "No, my fair Princess. It is not."

Elphir surveys me over his goblet. "The Enemy would see to your destruction," he says. He takes a long draught. "And that makes you a target for yourself, and Lord Boromir."

My relief at being understood shows through my hot tears. "Yes. My Lord Steward would set me in a cage, and he almost did, but for my leaving the City. A messenger is likely on its way now describing my absence."

"No doubt Denethor will be angry," murmurs one of the Prince's other children. "He will seek to remove her from here. What can _we_ do?"

"This is a dilemma," admits Lord Imrahil. "He is my governor, and to him must I submit. He has already called for troops along the River Anduin. And no ill offense to them, or my warrior-sons, but he would prize our Lady here far more than they."

"And word is already out," chimes the same son. "Already my valet tells me that the Lady Captain is a spy of the Steward."

"I am most certainly not!" I say indignantly; by this point I am flushed, and my dress suddenly feels too tight. "I came here of my own accord, seeking succor. Though," I pause, "that does not bode well for him, either."

"Peace, Lady, Amrothos," the Prince implores. "Amariel – for Amariel she must be among kin, you are under no suspicion here, honestly. But we are in a bind. If he calls for your presence, I have no choice but to yield you up to his judgment."

Feeling small, I nod. To return to the City! In shame, and like as not, chains. The Lord Steward bears none as friend.

I see the Prince's third kinsman counting something out on his fingers. By order of elimination, this must be Erchirion.

"If I may so be as to ask," he says, directing a keen gaze to my abdomen, "when did you last lie with your husband?"

"Erchirion!" Elphir reproaches, glaring at him. At least that glare is not directed at me! These children of the Prince are finely tuned for intimidation. "That is bold."

"I'll allow it. I've heard worse in the Healing Houses. But to be sure, make it not a regular question of ladies you converse with." I level Erchirion a similar stare.

He shrugs. "I will not. But when?"

It has been…I try to think of the note-book. "Three months and three weeks, I believe."

* * *

"Agh! No! I do not want it!"

My lord husband's screams wake me. I leap from bed, throwing on a dressing gown meant for this purpose, and hurry through a door. He is thrashing about on the floor of the antechamber.

How he got there, I do not know. Last I was aware, he was beside me on the bed, reviewing a final report. Often we were thus. We spent many a conversation going over strategy – I had no head for it, but I was useful for catching details he overlooked.

I fell to sleep in the middle of a question, noting a glimmer of humor in his expression. If there was no love, there was the affection time spent together brought.

The candles on the small table by the door were nearly out. I could smell the wax, their acrid scent a backdrop for what I knew were horrific nightmares.

I bend over my lord, touching him not. He warned me against it the first night we spent together, and I trusted him after he threw a fist in my direction two nights later.

"Come, my lord! It is a dream only!" I call, again and again, until I am nearly shouting. He wakes at last, covered in sweat. His nightshirt is damp, I discover, when his eyes meet mine.

"A dream," he repeats, and his voice is hoarse. I help sit him up, then fetch a canter of water. It is chilled by the cool of the chamber, but that will serve to bring him further away from the darkness.

"What did you dream this time?" I ask, handing over the canter. A mere cup will not do, and from the hoarseness, he will need the whole of the canter.

"I dreamt of a small Man, of desiring to overtake him. I dreamt of an unquenchable fire, and our City falling to ruin. So much fire!" He drinks deeply, and I see through the dim light he is paled almost completely white.

I try to find the right words. It is not the first he has dreamt darkly, nor the last, but they are becoming more frequent as the nights grow longer and the Shadow closer. I cannot reassure him, for I too, feel the fell evil growing.

I break the noise of his swallows by an offer. "I cannot take away the evil, but I can turn your mind from it, at least for a little while. Would you have me do so?"

We were not intimate recently. He was summoned by his father each morning, to review battle plans, plans, he would say to me later, that seemed sound but not enough. Never enough.

He introduced intimacy on our wedding night. I had no objection, knowing my duty, yet he made it more pleasurable than duty by far. It was an agreeable evening pastime for the both of us, as I learned what entranced his attention and he mine.

Despite the intimacy of body and conversation, there is yet lack in our marriage. He remained reserved, a reserve I sought to get beyond, piece by piece. I rearranged our shared bedchamber to suit both our needs – he preferred the sunshine in the mornings, I the starlight in the evenings, so the bed was set nearest the window. His wardrobe was scant, while mine, by necessity of its many pieces of the dresses, was much larger. I used the antechamber for my two wardrobes, so he could have a bedside table brought in for his reports.

I often sent some small token to him, a reminder I thought of him throughout the day. He was receptive to these gifts, I found out, and warmth grew somewhat between us.

It is against one of the wardrobes we now sit. Its oaken wood is a contrast to his pallor. It is better, but not much.

"Would you have me do so?" I ask again, eyeing him closely.

He finishes the canter, wiping his mouth. "I would, but I caution you, it will not be gentle. For I find my heart is heavy and my thoughts anxious."

I am not afraid. In any lovemaking, he is considerate. Gentility aside, he will be aware of my needs, and his - this is where I discover he is an honorable man in _every_ aspect of his life.

I stand, pulling him up with me. He straightens, and I see a gleam of – ferocity, is an apt word, and the best even in memory I can think of to describe the depths of his expression. When I shed my dressing gown, it shines the brighter.

Dawn finds us still abed. I am sore, and roll over as if asleep. Lucky I do – I hear a tenderness of a sudden, one that startles me to tears that, fortunately, stay behind closed lids.

"My lady-wife," he is murmuring. "If I could but tell you all I have dreamt. But I would not have you despair, as I do. Sleep well, Amariel, more sweetly than myself."

He wraps his arms around me, and his breath is warm upon my neck. It evens, and he and I slumber some more.

* * *

"A good memory?" The family is eyeing me with mild grins.

I shake myself. "You could say that," I answer with a tentative smile of my own. I could, too, I think. It was the beginning of a period of far more affection he had shown me since we married. Too brief – hardly a week passes ere he spoke of the errand his father bid him take.

As attention is brought to my abdomen, I can now rest my hands freely upon it. "I do not know if I carry a boy or girl," I caution. "I do not recall a living daughter in the line of the stewards."

Erchirion finishes counting. "I might have a plan, but it depends on some other news. Is there else you would have from us, your kinsmen?"

He emphasizes 'your kinsmen', and at last, tension bleeds from my shoulders. I am among family here.

The weight of their gazes is heavy with significance. If the line of the Stewards is supplanted, what does that say for the future kingship? I knew the line of the Stewards as well as anyone in Gondor. Being under Lord Denethor's tutelage as his married daughter, I also knew that the stewardship would be difficult to wrest from him if for no other reason than his belief in his own will.

"I would seek counsel on one other matter," I say slowly. "There came a messenger in the last sennight that brought word of the Dunedain to the north. Is there truth to the rumors of a king, and this 'grey company'?"

All food is ignored at my latest question. I know I have long since taken a bite.

The Lord Prince responds first. "We, too, have messengers of the Dunedain visiting. As a matter of fact," his lips train upward, "you traveled with one here."

What?

"But they were farmers!" I say, amazed.

"The kingdom of the North has many warriors, but a kingdom is also its _people_. Think they not have need for food, and the bearing of children?"

The air is lightened by the jest. It comes at my expense, but as I am too relieved at sharing my heart's unease, I am not too upset. "No sir, they simply spring from the ground!" I jest in return.

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that question to-night – the moon has risen, and I must confer with Almog how much I may reveal. But let us convene again on the morrow," he says, more seriously. "Perhaps by then, we can solve this dilemma of your presence."

I get to my feet stiffly, and so do the rest. "Lothiriel, if you do not mind accompanying the good Lady back to her rooms? She is in the Sunset Shell chambers."

"It has a name?" I ask her, as we disperse. The men go ostensibly to make plans, judging from Erchirion's words. Their voices fade as Lothiriel leads me through the maze of corridors. Sconces in the walls are lit, their flames friendly.

Lothiriel chuckles. "They are nicknames. This part of the palace was formerly only guesthouses. When Father's father added more wings at the back, we had to start naming portions so as not to get lost." She describes other rooms for me, including a nursery. Pointedly, I think, and I catch a note of yearning. But any question is lost when she says she has her own research to do.

She bids me good-night at the door, reassuring me, "We will think of something. You need not worry, Lady Amariel."

Despite my earlier naps, I find the bed needful and cool. I brush away the maids after they unlace me, seeking my own thoughts.

The Prince and his family – my family – have been much more than kind. I have been made welcome. With that thought, I rest and dream.

* * *

 _-to be continued-_


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: I've been so eager, but careless. Also on the search for a beta; any recommendations?  
Many thanks to **Certh** , who has provided thorough feedback.

Disclaimer: This is for entertainment, not profit. I'm just playing in Tolkien's sandbox.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

 **The Captain's Wife**

 _I stand on a ledge of black stone, sharp beneath bare feet. Tears roll down my face; I try to wipe them away, but my arms are too heavy to lift._

 _A flame springs up, circling the ledge so that in any direction I turn, I encounter blistering heat. Sinister words emanate from beyond the ring._

" _I can give you what you seek…."_

 _I see a caricature of myself, standing happily beside my lord husband. We are wearing winged crowns, his of pure silver steel – like unto a sword – and mine a glowing white – mithril. We are radiant, in love. My counterpart leans over and I see this Boromir's face turn down, into her breast._

 _I struggle within the invisible bond. My arms loosen, and I attempt to break through the flame._

 _My counterpart looks up, and I see her teeth are dripping with a foul, viscous thread. The crowned Boromir is now suckling greedily, the same substance dripping onto his armor. The image is seductive and grotesque, all at once._

 _I try again to break free. Flames shoot ten-fold into an undulating, crimson sky. I only have a foot's-width of space in each direction._

 _I have no way out. I am forced around, and around, until I am dizzy with the effort. I breathe deeply and attempt to blow out the tendrils creeping up my legs. They only grow stronger._

 _The flames close upon my throat and I choke._

* * *

"Wake, wake!" A gull's grey head enters my vision.

"Careful! She's learned more from her lord than love-making!" Another gull, to the left of her.

My hands are being held tightly, and I blink to clear the hellish dream; a new variation on the ones I told the others last night. A firm grasp bids me still until I can fully take in my environs – and my safety. My disorientation wears off gradually, and through the window I can see another cloudy day dawning.

Dol Amroth. The Sunset Shell chambers. Wendlywn whose body is taut with concern and cheekiness. She holds a tray of what must be my breakfast.

It is Elenaor whose warm fingers I have to pry from mine. "I am awakened," I say blearily, wiping my eyes free of sleep dust. Evidence of Namo's visit, my mother used to tell me.

She steps back, wary. "Some dream, miss. You nearly hit me and Wendy." There is affection for her sister-maid in tone and glance.

I apologize. "I was…dreaming badly."

'Wendy' snorts. "If that's dreamin' badly, I'd hate to see what a nightmare is!" She settles the tray on my lap, gently, like she might an invalid. I hoist myself up, catching the tray as it wobbles.

"No family breakfast?" I ask, looking the food over. Fruit, and tea, and toast. There is also a small piece of cold meat, and four cracker-like pieces. Elenaor straightens the rumpled bedcovers, and I have to muffle an inadvertent giggle as she accidentally passes over my feet.

"It's half-past when the meal begun," she answers. "You slept long and hard until that awful dream. The Lord Imrahil thought you might prefer some time to," she pats the bed, "yourself."

Considerate, but also lonely. The Princess might be a friend to me, and perhaps Lord Elphir. Erchirion is too…impudent, for my taste.

A few minutes later, I change my mind; lonely, certainly, but I am spared any embarrassment from ruining either my own dress or someone else's. The meat turned my stomach terribly and I dart for the water-closet where the chamber pot is waiting. Bile and freshly-chewed meat claw their way out. I heave and heave, until I all am doing is trying to breathe clean air.

I sit back, drying my cheeks of sweat and the noxious bile. I would heave again but for nothing being left to bring up. If my lord were here, he would be holding my hair, possibly with some jest at not being able to have any meal with me without my dashing away from him. "I must be an orc, for you to run away so often!"

He would do the kindly thing and help me clean up the mess, hand me off to my maid with no small instruction, and we would part on amicable terms. He would tend to his soldiers, and I to their requests. It was an unusual arrangement, one the Lord Steward was not quite acceptable of, but did not refuse his Heir when he cited his brother's absence and his inability to cover what had been lord Faramir's perview within City walls.

I shudder at the thought of seeing the Steward's brown eyes glittering in disdain. How he handled his late wife laden with child, I cannot fathom.

My heart quails within me, both with longing and with fear. Have I been a fool to leave Minas Tirith?

Wendy – the pet-name stuck, and absolutely suits her charming impertinence – wipes my face with care, with a white handkerchief as spotless as her overlay. When I am able to stand, albeit with one last shudder, she leads me back to the bed to regain my bearings. In her other hand is the same chamber-pot, which she sets on the floor by my feet.

"Just in case," she winks, and turns to the chest to pull my outfit for the day.

* * *

"Lady Amariel!"

A light, feminine voice calls my name. I am standing in the corridor outside the rooms given me, more than a little lost. The sconces are no longer burning, but I am no less confused in the daytime. Each of the stone walls seem the same, each arch of a doorway – some with doors, some simply an arch – identical to the one before it. I have been pacing for many minutes, attempting to discern differences in the walls, to no avail.

"Amariel!" I turn over my shoulder and discover the Princess running to me. "There you are, you sleepy clam! Father said not to wake you, but it seems you've done that yourself." She is not out of breath, I note, and her face is just as prone to smiling as it was last night. Her day dress is identical to mine, save its green to my dark blue, and I recall the maids telling me it was of her wardrobe they dressed me.

I like her, I decide, attempting my own smile.

"I had a dream, Princess," I say. "I can relate it later, for it seems you have news?"

"I do," she says, bouncing slightly on her toes. Whatsoever it might be, she finds it exciting, not at all dreadful as I have deemed my particular situation.

Something of my fears must show, for she takes my arm and squeezes it. "I know you are afraid, but truly, we think we have found a way through, in part. Come! Father is waiting."

As she guides me through to presumably what will be her Father's study – all men of office, I have found, seem to have a particular room with which to do work, as women tend to have solars or sewing rooms – she points out helpful markings. The shells that are everywhere are not just for decoration: there is a certain kind of code to the way they are arranged.

Doors that have one or two shells are for public use, she explains. They are accompanied by a demarcation for the room's use: the blacksmith a hammer, the armor-mastor a mailplate, and so on. Public water-closets, she adds with a smirk, have two lines representing the ocean next to the shell.

Rooms with three shells are for guests and those who come with them. So as I am Lord Boromir's wife, I was given a suite. Had I a lady-in-waiting with me, she would be in an adjoining chamber.

A twinge of guilt runs up my back. My ladies-in-waiting….all four of them will be expected to know where I have gone. The Steward will question them until he gets an answer. Gentle ladies, they are, prone to sensitivity, in particular Lady Mardil, who blushes at anyone's glance.

As my lord husband was responsible for his soldiers, I had claimed responsibility for these women personally. They were women of the Court, selected to help assist me to help navigate the gossip, the politicking, and to help fend off would-be seducers of my Captain.

Lady Mardil is the youngest, at sixteen. Her father knows mine well, as they were childhood friends. Lady Airemana, engaged to one of the archer-guards of the Lower Circles – she is the one most sympathetic to my missing Boromir during his absences; her marriage was arranged so that her younger sister could marry whom she pleased. She knew the meaning of sacrifice.

Lona is a widow, grieving a husband lost at Osgiliath. She lost her title with her husband – but her practicality is such I kept her with me. She it was suggested that I go to the Houses for employment of my time.

And finally, Lady Herenya. Her family, aside from the Steward's, is the wealthiest in the City. Also, the largest – her four brothers all have children, and her two younger sisters debuted at Court just last year. Her father and _his_ three brothers were responsible for the finding of a mine some years ago. She carries herself with airs that by most standards are deserved.

For my part, she is the best resource for talk within the Court.

Of the four, she will be the strongest, well-used to sparring in word and body language. I hope the other three will follow her example.

Princess Lothiriel knocks, jarring me from my guilt. Her hand is upon a wooden door, the color of the sand in the harbor.

"Enter," says the Prince from within. She pushes in, and we are welcomed into a spacious study (I was correct). It, like every room here, has a spectacular view of the harbor. Large ships set upon the water and I can see the unfurling of sails.

The princess, too, notes their appearance. "To war with the Corsairs?" she asks.

Her father nods. "We are sparing every-one we can. The Lord Steward, " he says, with an additional nod at me, "will get our foot-soldiers, but our sailors must guard the coastline. We can ill afford to lose much more land to the Shadow."

"The Shadow is here, too?" I am surprised. The people, myself included, have long regarded Dol Amroth as a final safe-haven should the War end badly. "But there are so many here! I was with at least a hundred who sought your realm."

"It is in the waters," Princess Lothiriel explains. "Our sea-creatures are dying, of an illness we cannot stop. The Corsairs bring it with them, and plunder freely when the coastal villages starve."

"We are only just containing it from our main seat," she continues, glancing at her Father. "Father has had to order even my brothers to sail."

"I thought the Princes were obliged to serve?" It is thus within the Steward's line; every son has been a soldier.

"They are, yes," she agrees, "but when our own borders are overrun with burning and disease, we have to tend to them first."

I sink into a chair that, by its flatness, is well used to being sunk into.

The War is on a larger scale than I could imagine. Despite many hours with my lord Boromir, I was not familiar with the coast and what they might be- _are_ battling. The Steward was the tip of the spear, I saw suddenly – the rest of his props the length of it.

"And yet you seek to aid me?" My voice is as small as I feel.

I am not a simpleton. Lord Boromir would not have agreed to marry me if my only quality lay within my breasts or between my legs – those, I knew, he could find either at Court or in the brothels. But even he argued that I stay within the domestic sphere, my only exploration outside it assisting him in his study. And that was because he knew my father trained me to read, write, and do business.

There was a reason my father paired me with him, I realize dimly. I could do the paperwork, while he spent his time with his first love: fighting the War. I am a tool, much like a sword or a knife, or a well-aimed bow.

Generosity of its own accord is new to me, then. That the Lords and Lady would genuinely try to find a way through the murk, well, I did not imagine it actually happening. An edict at their Court, perhaps. Or maybe I could have disguised myself as someone else, _like my failed attempt getting beyond the check at the harbor's edge_ , a snide voice whispers.

I try to ignore it.

"Of course we would," says Lothiriel. "Think you not we would try to help our married cousin? After all, Faramir said that you might need it."

* * *

- _to be continued-_


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Forgive me for fudging the Ring War's timeline a little. In any case, Lady Amariel wouldn't know the precise timeline on her own, just how long she has been married…I worked it out that since Boromir's journey took a little under four months, then they had to have been married for at least seven, and added a couple extra to make it more plausible. I'm not good with numbers, however, unlike Amariel.

Thank you to **Certh** , who is correcting my errors! I am grateful to have a reader who knows Elvish languages far better than myself - my Elvish is poor and limited to simple words.

Disclaimer: Not a piece, do I own. For entertainment only.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

"What part did Lord Faramir play?" I am all astonishment. The relationship between the brothers, I am aware of, is close, but never did I dream that I might have been written of.

I chide myself for being so ridiculous. Of course they wrote each other! As Captains in Gondor's Army, they oft had news to share.

But an expression, like that of guilt, passes over Lothiriel's face, wiping it clean of any smiles. She answers my question. "He wrote Faramir when you were married, and Faramir wrote us…that is, my Father and myself. I have the letter if you wish to read it – it was among the letters I searched through last night."

I cover my face. My lord Captain and I were married now for a little over ten months. While my position was…unusual, I have never suspected that I would be the topic of intense discussion. It occurs to me that all those who recognized me have said something of the kind, that my lord husband had written of me.

What was it that the guard, Danaran, said? "He wrote of you often"? The Prince did, also. And now Princess Lothiriel.

I do not see the apologetic glance Lothiriel and her father share, but I hear the rustling of fabric as she comes around to reassure my anxiety. Her hands are much darker than mine; she must take plenty of air. Given the proximity of the sands of the beach, I have no doubt the complexions of the Amrothian Court are vastly different than – what was it the princess had called it? – the White Court.

"If you are concerned your husband wrote poorly of you, do not be afraid," she says, gently. I seek for any lie in her eyes, but then, the family at Dol Amroth has always been known to be honest.

* * *

On one occasion, during one of the feasts I presided over, I remember the Lord Steward muttering behind his goblet to Lord Boromir. Seated to Boromir's left, I did not overhear much, but I did manage to see the lord Faramir rest his hand on Boromir's forearm, as if to signal to his brother, _restrain yourself from bitter words._

"Honesty will not prosper the shore, Boromir. Lord Imrahil does not know the usefulness of deceit." He studies the gems on the goblet in distaste. The head of the kitchen will likely get a lecture tonight, for poor wine; the crop must have been bad again, after the ravaging of the vineyards outside the City.

I make a note to visit the kitchens in the morning, if only to soothe ruffled feathers. I could not make excuses for the Lord Steward – who could? – but at the very least I could encourage the servants and maids to do their duty regardless.

The hand on my lord Boromir's forearm tightens, and I see his lips press until they pale. The relationship between father and sons is not one I fully comprehend, but from the way the brothers are restraining themselves, seems to indicate at love thrived there once.

"Perhaps not, Father." My husband's voice is light, and I wonder at the cost it took to maintain levity. "But you know Lord Hurin learned that lesson." He laughs, and Lord Denethor's face brightens into a rare smile. It is so different, to see humor there – it changes his whole countenance. I see, briefly, what might have been, and where my lord husband resembles him.

The rest of the evening I puzzle over the remark, and at my request that night, I receive a story from Lord Boromir about an escapade involving sneaking away from his tutors to watch the other soldiers fight, and a certain seneschal convinced to distract the Lord Steward from finding him.

* * *

"It is not that I fear being poorly written of," I answer. "It is – well, my lord's first love, truly, is the battles he plans, the soldiers he commands, and the fields where his blood is spilt."

Many times he had left and returned with stitches. Stitches I myself helped pull out, bandages I changed. From the time we married to three months ago, I had counted seven new scars. None deep, praise the Valar. He may have been born under a lucky star; at the very least, under Ithil's watchfulness.

"I have no place there," I continue. "That I realize now." I am not sad, precisely; after that moment shared in the Houses, we spoke privately in the gardens. He was proud of my work at healing, considered it useful. He cautioned to continue at it every day, for as long as I was able. His tone was practiced, commanding.

And with my realization moments earlier, I can see certain pieces fitting together: my father's insistence to be at Court, where I could be watched easily; his perseverance that though I a daughter and not a son, I learn business; his favor with the Lord Steward. I see how my path was written for me long before I was aware. I am not ungrateful, but I do feel…used.

Like one of my husband's soldiers.

"I cannot speak for your husband, but I can encourage you to hope a little," the Princess says, squeezing my fingers as gently as she spoke. "Here is the letter – I suggest reading it in privacy." She pulls from a pocket hidden deep in her dress a rolled parchment, with a broken wax seal, but tied with a blue ribbon. The seal is familiar, one my lord husband used often. I had used it in his stead when responding to the requests the soldiers made. I never thought to see it again after leaving the City, nor to pocket it.

"Not all marriages are going to have love," Lord Imrahil says from behind his desk. I look up to meet his cautioned words. "Mine did not, but we were amiable. My little Princess," he adds affectionately, "enjoys a good love-story."

The princess protests, and the atmosphere lightens perceptibly. She is one for good humor, as I thought.

"Now, to business," he says. "We have devised a plan of sorts to not quite remove you, but will protect you in part." He shuffles through the various papers strewn across the dark yellow of his desk, and idly I wonder of what wood it is wrought. Too pale for mahogany, too grey for oak.

Princess Lothiriel catches me looking. "Driftwood. Much of our furniture is made of it. We sometimes have to replace a few pieces – it has been tossed about the ocean after all – but it is fairly sturdy. In any case, Father loves it."

He chuckles. "It is wild, a gift of Ossë. How could I not?" But the lines around his eyes go taut, and when he finds what he was shuffling for, he is somber. I am apprehensive. It is not for nothing all the sons of the Prince have survived every battle they fought; for that matter, the Prince himself. Traces of a scar dot the corner of his jaw.

"Lady Amariel, what do you know of the _dor-e-galar_?" He passes the paper over to me, an illustration of an island hidden in the rain, but with a light emanating from the tower that sits atop. It is a lovely sketch.

My Elvish is rudimentary. We use Westron for ledgers, it being the Common Tongue. Anyone who needed to use them, could. I think hard, and answer hesitantly. "The land of light?"

"Close – the 'land of the lamp' – much better in the Elven tongues, I daresay. If you look closely out my windows here, you can see its edges."

I follow his gesture to the windows, whose sills are damp beneath my fingers; no doubt from the long exposure to sea-breezes that carry the wet of the ocean. That strange oppressiveness is still present and the clouds also. A mist is fading, and through its clearing, I see a rocky shore. The waves crash against it, in bursts of incredible power. It must be spectacular at their side, but dangerous.

"That is the island where our light-house rests, where guards stand monitoring the Bay for our ships. We use the lamps to guide them safely to port. It was built after the other Tower, further up the cliffs, was ruined accidentally…" He trails off, scowling mildly. From the corner of my eye, I see the Princess hunch her shoulders sheepishly. Intriguing; I must ask her for the account when there is a better time and place. "It is able to house four guards, two a room, and has a few storerooms. You can see why they would need stores for some time."

I nod, despite facing the shifting waters outside. I may not be sea-faring, but the waves look menacing even from this distance. Experienced sailors only could navigate to the island. My arms feel itchy, as if sprayed by them, and I wipe them of the imaginary salt.

My mother, if she were available, would reprimand me for the fidgeting. I was not a still child, by any means. Several hours before bed I would have to stand before her, to learn posture. "Your father may be tutoring you in numbers, but it is I who must make you a _Lady_." The word was distinctly emphasized.

"I understand, my Lord. But what has this history to do with me?" I turn from the view and eye the Prince appraisingly. He does not quail under the gaze, but that is not quite my intent. "I suspect a plot, and as the most recent one involving me included my death, I would appreciate plain speech."

If ever there were two chastened individuals, they did not match my- kinsmen, whose faces mirrored one another: the same pulled-in cheeks, regretful gray eyes. I surely have learned from my husband a certain tone; some part of me is pleased and amused to have an effect on a House not given to weakness.

I am not typically an intimidating persona, but my time in the Houses with undaunted patients taught me that sternness is a required tool. The Healer who took me in – the one who first let me occupy the boy – worked with me to strengthen my soft voice, which, surprisingly, my mother supported.

"A _Lady_ must be in command of herself at all times," she'd say, flapping her fan.

In the present, the Prince and Princess before me straighten. He speaks, forestalling his daughter's own explanation. She quiets and watches us both carefully, picking without looking a thread in her skirt. She is as apprehensive as I; somehow, I am comforted.

"As we have need to stretch our forces sparingly, my children thought it possible to send you to light the lamps in the stead of one of my usual guards."


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Well, can't say I am too surprised Lady Amariel is asked to do something unusual. However, this puts her in a unique position later down the road…

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, really. I am borrowing from Tolkien's world to expand upon, hopefully in a beautiful and realistic way.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/AU.

The Captain's Wife

Again I am astonished. A sense of dread, unknown and unforgiving, shivers up my spine and I cannot help but shake my head. The Princess misconstrues the movement for disagreement and hastens to explain further.

"The lamps are heavy, but you would not handle them – the guards posted are responsible for their maintenance. Instead you would watch their flame, ensuring they do not sputter. When they do, you would re-supply the fuel. Easy!"

"Says the sea-faring daughter of a sea-faring prince," I say dryly, but her enthusiasm is touching. I wonder how much older I am, but age does not matter, really; in the recent weeks I have lived, I could be many years older.

The idea does have appeal – within the lighthouse, I do not exactly fall with the jurisdiction of the Prince or the Steward. I would be serving the country of Gondor as a whole; even the Lord Steward would find it difficult to argue with the necessity of bringing ships safely along the shore, the same ships that were sailing to War to defeat the Shadow.

However, one obvious loose end needs tying.

"I am carrying the Heir and in months will deliver. How do I do so in such distance from a healer?" Instinctively my hands go to my abdomen. I have yet to feel the baby move, but I am sure it will. It has to; despite the danger I represent, if I do not deliver the child, the Steward would seek to cast me from his net.

It is a precarious thing, to be a woman. More so, to be a woman married to the line of Stewards.

Prince Imrahil and Princess Lothiriel exchange glances. Evidently there is something to which I will disagree. Several tense moments pass before the lord of Dol Amroth speaks, eyeing me warily.

"We think to send Erchirion. If nothing else, he would learn to hold his tongue…but that is neither here nor there – he has experience birthing children, both at sea and on land. "

" _That_ impudent beast? Him? Send me Lord Elphir, or even Lord Amrothos, but not that child." I cross my arms, angered. I did not like him from the moment I met him; the lord's other children were respectful, but _he_ had no problem daring to forgo boundaries.

It is true, I am used to impertinence from patients. A Lord of standing, however, is different, in that it breaks the code of chivalrous speech common to higher ranks. I was quite right to rebuke him as I did, gracious in allowing his too-personal query. As per the code, I could have snubbed him, and the snub been acceptable in the eyes of our society. In the City, my ladies would have advised me to turn my head upon his appearance, and speak to him only if strictly necessary.

Though it appears the Amrothian Court differs from the one I am familiar with. _Not so simple to be here, is it?_ That voice! If I had some outlet, some activity, to shake off the inner critique growing since I arrived.

The Lord Prince _tsks_. The sound is familiar; it must be trademark of parents...of whose company I will join in only a few months. My hands curl at the image of holding my lord husband's child.

 _Our_ child.

I am not ready. How can I be? The father of our child might be dead, for all I know, and I am in danger of it myself, as is the baby. We might not survive these times long enough to make it to birth, much less a first birthday. Longing pangs through my heart and I have to ignore it as the Prince speaks. "We do not have to be so kind, though we are kin." His tone is mild, almost loving, but the warning sting is present, nonetheless.

I bow my head and curtsey. "Forgive me. My weariness and worry must have colored my words." It is not a direct apology, and the Princess smirks at me, a small hand signal hidden in her skirts indicating her approval and amusement.

"The offense is forgiven by the House." His stare is level as mine was on his son.

I accept the formality as my due, though inwardly I am surprised. I must have shown too much of my own impertinence for him to remind me of whose House I am imposing upon.

Smoothing my bodice, I raise the question of his son's suitability; other questions having been to put bed with Prince's rebuke, I must speak up for my honor. "I am a married woman, my Lord. Even with his experience – however he achieved it – there would be talk. I am already at risk, coming here so openly recognized. I will not have my honor besmirched, that the Captain-General be not welcomed _when_ he returns." I do not resist emphasizing the when.

The Princess answers. I know she is trying to reassure me, and with her gleaming eyes, I almost can believe her. "You will find, my dear, _dear_ kinswoman, a few well-placed reminders will do well to quell any suspicions." Her amusement is feral, and contagious. I am brought to mind of my ladies, who first guided me to use talk to displace public attention. I was skilled enough at it, but the Princess looks downright predatory.

Women are often discounted for battle, but little do men remember Court, in any variation, to be its own dangerous field. I am thankful I have the princess on my side of that particular war, and not in opposition.

I curtsey again, this time more favorably and in gratitude. "You have my thanks, Princess."

"Now, as for your arrival there…"

* * *

Details are many. Much does such a plan require, unique in both its origin and duration. It would bother me but for the fact I have been an oddity since the start of my tutelage. I counted few friends beyond my ladies-in-waiting; women of the White Court did not favor a woman who seemed smarter then themselves.

Smarter, perhaps not. Better educated is more likely.

Wherever they are now, I wish them well. Whether they have departed the City, or been cast out, or have stayed…their fates are to me, for now, unknown. I could ask the princess to write to her friends. If she is as connected as she claims, then I could use that to my advantage.

I laugh to myself, though not in true amusement. _Scheming, am I? No better than the ladies who I condescend,_ that same snide voice whispers. It is as if I have the Lord Denethor inside my head; the image of him directing my every move that I have to pinch myself to be rid of it, to remind me I am in the sea-city, not the White.

We have to count on the tide to pull us in safely, according to the Prince. As a result, a few more days must pass, but that gives us time to pack a small boat well. Healing supplies, food. Some resupply for the guard already there, letters of explanation and command for them also. Suitable dress – so close to the water, it will grow chillier as the season fades, and myself larger as the baby grows within. Wool undergarments must be woven to my specifications, and I must have material to sew garments for the baby in my free time.

Though, my time will not be entirely my own, or as I spent it in the City. I must trust the guards for my safety, and the lord Erchirion.

"You may outrank him, according to custom," his father warns, "but he is much more experienced than you. See that you obey him if he commands you to!"

I keep my scowl for when I slip away to be measured by the maids.

"To the lighthouse! You are lucky," Elenaor says through the sewing pins. How she manages to do so, I do not know, but she is not choking on them, so I refrain from commenting. The walls here in the sewing rooms are painted a pale blue, a color that does much to soothe my inner turmoil. Despite my tired limbs, I find a certain calm in being. Elenaor's hands are cool and light as she places the pins.

"Lucky how? That place is wetter than a mistress for her man," snorts Wendy. I see in the hanging mirror her being lightly slapped on the wrist. She drops the skeins of fabric she is holding. "Thurneil, that hurt!"

"And well you deserved it," mutters Elenaor, moving around at my feet. The stool I am standing on shakes briefly as I shift my weight; fifteen minutes have I spent attempting a statue-like resemblance. "Be still!"

I turn my head anyway. "Wendy, while I appreciate the sentiment, I do ask you phrase future remarks more prettily. Have I your agreement?" As a Lady, I needn't ask, but I find the courtesy does more than slapping my servants. Such a practice is common in the City, but I never applied myself to it.

She is suitably humbled and curtseys deeply, picking up the skeins once again for Thurneil to look over; for Thurneil's part, she is stern and quiet. Of the trio, she is the most observant and quick to maintain order.

I am finding own place here, increasingly, and I wonder that I was not so comfortable within the City. If I have a future, maybe spending summers here is feasible. These three maids are improving my current stay, certainly; for my daydream, I would request their continual attendance. They are hard-working, all, and Wendy is lively and provides suitable entertainment, but underneath the veneer is a young woman of hardiness. If all goes well, I could perhaps count them near friends; such a thing I did not have before.

I sigh and shift my feet once more. _Friends_. Any woman of standing could tell you they are rare, loyal ones especially so. Any gossip could be ruinous, from something as slight as talking to the milliner's son to full scandal, such as bedding the milliner's son (or father; Lady Herenya was too forthcoming with the details of that particular occasion).

"My Lady, if you do not be still, I will have no choice but to prick you!" A promise, not a threat, but one I am not given to test.

I turn my gaze back to the mirror and stiffen my arms, letting my daydream build as one might build a castle of the beach sand. I do not think of Elenaor's remark until several days later.

* * *

That evening, after the promise was fortunately not followed though, I am invited to attendance at the family dinner. "A regular occurrence," says Lothiriel, who has to guide me once more to the private dining room. "In these days, when much is sought, and many plans must be made, we find that family dinners are a bedrock for hope. And here, Father and my brother can answer the one of the questions you sought last night. The one," she lowers her voice, glancing around to ensure no servants are nearby in the flickering light, "regarding the report of the king's company."

I understand the need for discretion. Servants talk loud, fast, and often, and if word were to spread of a king, there would be unrest and uncertainty. I too glance around, but other than the seashells and sconces decorating the walls, we are alone as we enter the hall.

The same tables and cushions are present, and I am relieved. After standing so long while being fitted, I am mildly faint with dizziness. Food will help, as I forewent luncheon in favor of an unruly stomach. It is another of Lothiriel's dresses I wear, the other having met an ill-smelling suitor in my bile.

While there is fish, I also see a roast chicken, and some fruit and honey. "Food fit for an unborn child," laughs the princess, and I chuckle at the discerning remark. I did not take to the red meat earlier, that of rabbit I learned, but chicken has been my favorite at the Steward's table since I discovered my pregnancy. How the family guessed at my preferences, I'll likely never know.

I inquire to the absence of Lords Elphir and Amrothos. "They are making ready a boat for your departure," the Prince says, filling his plate with fish and greens. "Erchirion, however, should be in attendance, soon. He will reassure you of his princely behavior."

I see why the sea-folk love their Prince. He does not abide fools.

I pile two cushions together for my seat, and place one at my back, of a light blue dye, with white circles. "I sewed that," whispers Lothiriel, seating herself next to me. I assure her of its loveliness; I am reminded of the clouds I counted as practice, outside my father's townhouse.

The Prince says the blessing to the Valar, and we settle into eating. Unlike last night, the atmosphere is much more relaxed, and my comforts seen to easily. My lady Princess is attentive, preventing me from getting up to refill my goblet of the juices I appreciate most, and the Prince keeps the conversation light.

I tell a story of my childhood, one in which the Princess finds entertaining. "I can hardly see you as a child, you have such a serious face!" she says, eyes dancing. I toss a carrot at her, from her own plate, but she catches it more deftly than I anticipated. "Brothers, remember?"

"My lord Father, forgive me for being late," calls the impertinent beast, striding in so quickly the herald has no time to call his name. Were I the Prince, I would chide him for that, but I suppose my time at the White Court has instilled a different sense of decorum.

"A messenger has arrived, from the White Court. He seeks your presence as soon as you are able."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: The story is taking a life of its own. I am as surprised as you that the messenger arrived, but the Lady Amariel assures me it is as she tells me.

The reason for the long delay has been the loss of a computer. Technology does not seem to be friendly with me, of late. I have, however, found an alternative. It will be a struggle – as it is not mine, but shared – but _The Captain's Wife_ pulls at me.

Disclaimer: The late great potentate of fantasy owns this wonderful universe. I can claim Amariel, but not too much more.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

"So quickly?"

Color drains from my cheeks, and the resulting clatter of my fork fills the silence. The hall, despite its openness to the sea, seems to close in, and I feel a cool handkerchief press into my hands. "Peace, Lady Amariel. The news might not be so poor." Though I take the handkerchief to my face, the princess keeps my other hand in hers.

"It would not have taken that long for the Steward to discover her absence, and on horseback, the time to the coast would be suitably shortened," he says, the answer intermittent with decent gasps. He must have hurried here after speaking with the messenger. Indeed so – dirt I recognize from the road clouds his boots and his tunic is in several creases.

"Erchirion, take your sister and the Lady to your antechamber. I must away with the messenger, distract him in the next few days until we can get you both to the island. A private word, if you will? And take some food with you, on a tray. I fear the Lady has not eaten enough."

The servants fetch trays and I am brought carefully up. I am truly not so steady on my feet as I wish, and I grip Lothiriel's arm tightly. I will not swoon – I am not foolish enough to fall over and potentially harm the baby – but I am deeply worried. I had hoped for two more days at the minimum. What was I thinking, attempting to escape the Lord Steward's iron-clad will?

The shadows from the wall sconces are in direct mirror to my dark thoughts. I imagine my wrists bound, can almost hear the clangs they make if I move. Who did he send, I wonder, Amaril of the Citadel or the typical mail courier?

Servants at the White Court have a peculiar hierarchy. Those who serve the Citadel directly have preeminence over those of lower circles, understandably, but within that preeminence comes certain strictures. Mail couriers are given high honors for their ability to both read and write, and the stories they hold court with at the servant's fires. Messengers of the Steward, however, are given a wide berth, and not oft spoken to or of; their grim faces and signia of the dead Tree are enough to warn the faintest of hearts away.

I am taken to a room painted in dark hues I cannot name – "Our Navy blue," Lothiriel supplies - and bid me to sit, and eat. "Your questions will be answered," she assures me, "as I said. Just not by my Father."

I am close to petulant, from both fear and irritation to have to hide with the creature I most heartily do not approve of. "I would rather the Lord Imrahil supply me with what I need."

"My brother is not a Corsair to deserve your disdain," she says sharply, pacing away from me restlessly. "I like you, my Lady, but pray, do not earn my disfavor."

The servants arrive with the food, and I resume my meal, affecting no response. Indeed, the House of Swan is not meant to be meddled with lightly. I have to recall my position here, the precariousness they place themselves in with the Steward. Even now, the Prince is protecting me by meeting the messenger's demand to see him forthwith.

I pity the messenger. What he must have endured at the Steward's wrath is unthinkable, and what he faces at the sea Prince's impenetrability…a long evening is ahead for him, with no immediate availability for the rest I am sure he needs.

We do not speak for several minutes. I finish what I can, and sip at my goblet, more to keep myself occupied than a need for any more fruit juices. As I drain them, the Lord Erchirion enters, bearing another tray.

"We do not have sweet pastries often anymore, but my Father deemed them necessary. They are fruit tarts," he answers my puzzled look, setting the tray down at the end of the table.

The room darkens, as clouds dim the skies. Ominous, foreboding, and an all-too-clear sign of the War ( _The Dark Lord is not known for subtleties,_ I think wryly). The long table where I sit, with a pitcher and basin at the end nearest me, creaks a little under the weight of the fruit tarts. Erchirion takes the chair opposite me, choosing a tart oozing with red fruit jam and covered in glaze. He passes it to me, and I take it out of politeness. I am not enough at ease with him to accept anything from him readily.

He shrugs as I set it on my plate, and selects another for himself, one that has a yellowed jam.

His sister paces by the window, which holds a deeply cushioned seat. I see a metallic hinge gleam dimly and understand the neat storage. _No doubt a sea-man's room_ , I think, taking in the anchor hung on the walls, and a painting of a land fair with towers and pennants. Numenor, or a likeness of it.

Altogether, the effect is one of a ship's cabin as I imagine it.

Erchirion settles himself to the tart and to the matter at hand. "Father said you sought the truth of the rumor of the Dunedain. I can answer that, and more, if you wish to know aught of the Steward's messenger."

He borders on arrogance, presuming my questions before I can speak them, and I clench my goblet. My jaw is tight, but at Princess Lothiriel's warning glance, I suppress the ill-speech rising in my throat.

That his eyes spark with amusement frustrates me further.

"I spoke with Almog before retiring, and he has agreed to lend you some of the truth. You must understand, however, that this knowledge is not meant for the ears of many. That he is trusting you is a positive consideration of your character, but an estimation also of his own judgment."

"Speak plainly, lord. Pretty words mean naught when it comes to my safety!" My impatience wins out, and I sense my mood shift radically. I am weary, despite having slept through most of the night. The dream weighs heavily on my shoulders, and I prefer fewer words than many when it comes to matters of business.

Or, in this instance, matters that might make the difference between my future life or my impending death.

Erchirion leans back in his chair, surveying me coolly. My outburst didn't affect him – he does have experience with births, then, I mentally groan. Impatient words will not move him. Chagrin creeps up my back, and seed, a tiny miniscule seed, of respect grows.

I sigh, reigning in my impatience. "My lord, please. I mean it – I am weary and since the messenger is already speaking with your Father we must make haste." I fold my arms.

At least I can rest comfortably. His antechamber is cool and now that I have eaten, I am not nearly so unsteady. But he does not have to know I am comfortable in here.

A brisk nod is all I get for my efforts. "You know of the Dunedain, in story, and Father said last night Almog was of that people."

"Yes. They are said to be a long-lived race, and your sea-folk – including you and your House, to be among that blood. Or of Elven, I have heard both." Breathe in, breathe out. Though I do not appreciate the easy manner with which this son of Imrahil carries himself, he will be tending to me the next months, provided the Steward does not pull me away in chains first.

 _Gallows humor later_ , I tell myself. _Listen_.

"There is some truth and untruth to those rumors. We are distantly kin to the Numenoreans, of a branch related to the Kings of Gondor. For that matter, the Dunedain are direct kin, that is, they carry the line of the kings of the North."

By the Valar's thrones. I am aghast. My behavior to Almog and his family really was unseemly, and I am reviewing a way to recover their goodwill when the son of Imrahil makes plain how uncourtly my hiding my own identity was.

"Almog is a cousin, his wife also. Methelwen has been raised to be a lady of kings, as all their women would be, as their men would be lords and, by necessity, soldiers.

The rumor of a specific King's company I am allowed to confirm, and by virtue of that confirmation, the presence of a king. Whom that might be, or where – well, if the Shadow knew, we would all be doomed."

For several minutes I am left to think out the ramifications.

Almog, a cousin to the King… He has a right to lay a bounty upon my head – not a literal one, mind, but one that indicates I am not welcome to him or his family. For that matter, not welcome to the King. What a mess!

Beyond that jar of decaying canned goods, the Lord Steward knows most, if not the entirety, of the movement within his realm. A king to take his rightful place on the White Throne above him…he would not be welcomed.

Boromir's dreams. I do not feel the goblet anymore, so tight a hold I have.

Neither my husband nor I understood the riddle of which he dreamt, despite putting pen to it. The verses were memorable, to be sure, but unclear. The Halfling…Isildur's Bane…a king come to life.

War is in every corner. Not unheard are fallen warriors; greatness does not promise survival. A future king could meet his end in any number of ways – in battle, an assassin. I myself almost ruined, how much easier would it be for the Enemy to strike on a chaotic battlefield?

The crowns in _my_ dream. That could come to fruition. _Not a dream._

 _Breathe in, breathe out_. Irrationally I want to turn back the past few minutes. In my ignorance, I could have claimed denial. Should I face the Steward and his infamous capabilities to read men's hearts, I would fail. His dark eyes had disarmed me more than once at a feast-table, a private audience with his wrath would successfully squelch any chance I have at hope.

If I were to be kept in chains for my own disobedience, what actions might the Steward undertake to secure his line – _my_ line? I glance down at my belly, overwhelmingly protective. I spread my hands over it, wishing desperately for the comfort of a kick.

For this baby, I must be brave.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: A double-update for your patience!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, save Amariel, and even she is an inspiration borne of my love for Tolkien's world.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

A knock interrupts us, and for a moment, the tension eases. If I knew how helpful knocks could be, I would have been knocking away at the table before me. That the knocking would no doubt have irritated that creature is an added pleasure.

The servant who stands at the door looks vaguely familiar, but I don't have enough time to recall her name. She has in hand a small piece of vellum, a rushed note from the Prince, judging by the seal. It is identical to the one Prince Imrahil wears about his head.

Princess Lothiriel takes the note. "From Father, yes?" A nod is all she gets; the poor maid looks as though she will be hunted and struck down at any moment. With a curtsey and an apologetic glance in my direction, she scurries away.

"She did not wait for a response," I observe, knowing as I do it could only mean one thing.

The Princess scans the vellum, and for the first time in my knowledge of her, I see outright nervousness. Though her voice does not shake, her fingers do, and my own fingers twitch, if only to hurry the pain I know must come.

"The Steward calls for your immediate retrieval," she reads. "To not do so is punishable by death, under the judgment of treason."

Erchirion lets out a low whistle. "He is a hard man, our Steward."

His sister continues. "Father says you and Erchi must leave immediately, under cover of the night. But he doesn't say how…" she trails off, turning the vellum this way and that, as if to find answers.

I am dismayed. I am due to have more clothes than this, clothes that will help ensure my – our, I correct myself, thinking of the daughter or son lying unknowing within – survival through the oncoming colder months.

We were meant to prepare me for the boat, so I would get sick as little as possible. The next morning, in fact, I was to try and make myself friendly with the waters, going down to the seashore and offering a prayer to sea god. To provide favor, I am told.

"What must I do?" I ask slowly.

"What?" The princess is startled from her own reverie.

"What must I do? I cannot leave here easily, even if the messenger is occupied. Every-one, including servants, knows I am here."

Little thanks to guard Danaran. But then, I might not have been so fortunate to win the Prince's favor if I had presented formally my complaints. Petty they seem now, framed by the larger War.

"You are with child. Think it through," says Erchirion. It is not a gentle command. Again my hands stiffen, and I regret that I have need of him. He has been nothing but needful, however, and I must pay him the respect he is due.

"Almost four months along does not constitute going into labor," I say, eyeing him. While my mother taught me the…details…of wife- and mother-hood, she did not tell me how difficult the process of carrying a child is. I have little to go on, but for one or two experiences in the Houses.

* * *

A hurried pounding at the door stirs my Lord and me from slumber. We had, for once, simply talked before falling into the worlds of our separate dreams, and neither of us had, of yet, awoken from dark thoughts.

I tell my Lord to return to sleep. "It is a healer's aide. The Lady Carmendil must be giving birth."

"Finally," he grunts. "Seems like woman's work takes far too long."

I toss a slipper at him as I leave, and am satisfied at the muffled curse.

The corridors are dark, most lanterns having been snuffed owing to the dryness of the night. The Head Housekeeper told me once that a single ember onto one of the many plants that brought life into the White Halls could spark a large fire. I doubted it, as the Halls were, after all, made of stone, but it was his knowledge, and not mine.

The aide is short, much shorter than myself, and so tiny I suppose one of my hands could encircle her wrist. But her eyes glimmer fiercely in the dark, and I think to myself this is not a woman to disobey.

"Lady Carmendil is through here," she says, ushering me to one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor. Indeed, the wailing that was faint during our hurried walk is now loud enough for me to wince.

"You'll get used to it," she says knowingly, with a faint smile. "After all, it might be you someday."

I shudder. "Not for some time yet," I reply, clutching my abdomen. "Though I know the Lord Captain, and most especially his father, desire a strong son."

"I can give you a spell for that," she offers over her shoulder, preparing rags and a bowl of hot water. She hands them to me, instructing that I keep the sweat from Lady's face. "We do not want bad spirits entering into her or the child to come."

"I think I will be well without one, but thank you." I decline the offer solely out of politics, but take the rags and bowl. If there is anything I have learned during my four months here, it is that the Lord Denethor does not approve of any kind of magics – herbal or Wizard. Should he receive word that I accepted – not even used – something of the sort, I might be henceforth banned from the Houses.

I have grown to like the work, challenging and often heartbreaking as it can be. The young girl, whose healer I assisted the first time, barely recovered; in fact, she lost her sight, rendering her worth to the marriage market to practically nothing. She will be a dependant all her life. It will be up to her young brother to marry well, to provide for her and their mother.

That could have been my lot, and my shudder this time has nothing to do with birth.

We enter in at last to where the Lady is prone upon a large mattress. Bits of hay are strewn about, no doubt from frantic movement. Her dark hair is matted and her face shiny. Healer Ioreth is tending her, murmuring things I cannot hear until I approach.

"The Valar be with you, you are strong, breathe in…not like a horse, dear, but deep, like the wind…"

She sees me and clucks. "About time! We need to wash all the spirits away, that this new babe can enter this world freely." She bustles away, for who-knows-what, and I and the aide are left to encourage the straining woman.

As I wipe the sweat – her eyes are closed, and eyelashes cling to her cheeks – I realize this is one of the women who contested my marriage to the Lord Boromir. She spread rumors of my unworthiness, citing that a woman who knew her numbers would be too Mannish for his taste (or then again, perhaps not).

I had responded with a rumor of my own – that a well-renowned soldier was seeking a desirable wife. I did not know then how successful my flippant words would be, as a month after my marriage, she married the same soldier. How now! And she is giving birth.

Any ill will I might have borne disappears as I witness her strength fade with each push. I do not know how many times I use the rag, or how many times the aide refills the bowl, or how many times Healer Ioreth comes and goes with fresh hay. The smell of sweat, tears, and blood mingle to create an odd perfume that clings to my dress and hair.

At long last, Lady Carmendil heaves forward. Eyes unseeing she gasps, "Out – you – come!" and indeed, a baby's thin wail filled the air.

"One more time, if you can, dear, be a lamb," says the aide, so tenderly I was shocked. This was a battlefield; tenderness seems out of place. But the glow on her and Ioreth's faces indicate otherwise.

Healer Ioreth moves forward and I can see the baby, long and red, and covered with- well, parts of Lady Carmendil. In the firelight – for the room has been stoked and hot – I suddenly see that nameless beauty. She lays the child – a boy – against Lady Carmendil's chest and I have to look away from the intimacy.

Several minutes later, when all is cleaned, and I have helped the Lady into a new shift, I am free to return to bed. I am thanked effusively by the new mother, who, in her gladness, does not recognize me. I am grateful for the respite from any embarrassment for her part, or mine. If she did recognize me, I am unsure how I could respond to someone who was so hurtful.

My husband is gone from the chambers, but there is a slipper on my pillow, marring its usually pristine casing. With an exhausted chuckle, I place it on the floor and sleep the day away.

* * *

Remembering the blood, I have an idea. It could have consequences, but these days, anything I do will. I must take the evil with the good.

"It is too early for labor," I say, slowly, "but not too early for a miscarriage."

I laugh a little – the prince before me is as gobsmacked as my lord husband was when I told him how long Lady Carmendil's labor took – a full eighteen hours. The princess strides toward me, pleading, "please say you do not truly mean harm to the child!"

"Do not think ill of me yet," I continue. "I mean no actual harm. But if the servants think I am experiencing trouble, then…"

Prince Erchirion finishes. "They will spread the word. Use what was previously a hindrance to aid us. If we away under cover of urgency, we can take the bay to the lighthouse unnoticed. "

The siblings share a look. "Who shall be the one to call for 'help'?" lord Erchirion asks.

"I will," Princess Lothirel answers. "After all, you are the one who knows babies." She crinkles her nose, though whether it is with disgust or amusement that a man should know woman's work is unclear.

Perhaps both – despite the grimness of the battlefield, men seem to be reluctant when it comes to "women's matters". There is certainly more blood, and more effort when it comes to birth, than what most realize. I stifle a chuckle after discovering my amusement is shared with that creature before me.

"Once I find 'help', I can pack the boats. Amrothos showed me how to stow things away quickly, though at the time it was more for mischief. I'll have to thank him…"

"A moment, please," I say, and I brace myself for a convincing moan. I consider being a play-actor; I know Lord Denethor did not have many often at the White Court, but there are accounts of them being present for my husband's infant introduction, and his brothers.

I bring myself to a bent position, one hand at my abdomen. "Agh!" I cry, though it is partly real. The chair has made me stiff.

Erchirion bends to "check" me, and I see a surreptitious wipe at my skirts. "Red jam," he whispers. "It will persuade those at a distance you need aid. I hope, however, that no one seeks to touch you."

"Someone! Help!" goes the princess, wringing her hands as she hurries out. "Please, hurry!" Her footsteps echo down the corridors. "Let not the Lady Captain be without aid in her time of need!"

If it were not for the desperate nature of my plight, I would laugh heartily. What fool am I, to playact the loss of my child?


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: A pity I am not more regular in my updates. There has been an unexpected development in my life that I have no answers to, as of yet.

Disclaimer: I do not own Erchirion, Lothiriel, or any of the characters or places from my beloved Lord of the Rings. I own only Amariel, and even she is brought to me between the lines of those pages.

Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.

The Captain's Wife

I pretend to straighten, to allow myself a heavy press of my foot on Erchirion's. However helpful his swiping of the jam may prove to be, I still have no doubt his hand among my skirts is a gross misconduct. Echoes of Lady Herenya's laugh ring in my ear, telling me of more scandalous doings of courtiers; if she were here, she would be enjoying herself immensely.

As for myself - I am gratified to see a wince furrow its way across his forehead.

We hobble along the corridors, and I overhear shouts and instructions. "Make way for the Lady and the Lord Erchirion!" "Ready the sickroom!" "Send for the Prince!" "Where is the Princess?"

I moan, though it is less and less a play-acting. Contorting my abdomen in half is not at all comfortable, and muscles are pulling at my back and side. It does not help that we are surrounded by hovering servants, wanting to see for themselves the Lady in distress.

This will fuel more gossip, as needed, but I know it could rapidly burn into an outrageous fire. Any word of what is really happening – my "miscarriage" - to possible theorizing of amorous relations between myself and the beast.

Who, despite the strain of the moment, has an impish expression.

"You do know how to convince them, do you not," he murmurs, and I glimpse a smirk. The creature is thoroughly pleased to have his arm around me!

Despite my worry, a well of heartache surges in my throat. Even my lord husband treated me well, the eve of our wedding.

 _My lord husband, how fare you?_

* * *

It is a warm evening, made so by the numerous lights around Lord Denethor's Hall. The tables have been removed to an adjacent chamber, to allow space for dancing. It is our wedding ball. We were married early in the day; now that night has fallen, I can be officially presented to the Court as the wife of the Lord Boromir.

I pull at my dress, starched and heavy. _Someday, my belly will be round with the Heir_ , I think. _How will I wear dresses then?_ Will I be allowed something lighter? I knew of many women during their carrying who swooned.

The guards on either side of the large wooden doors let me slip in. I will process down the Hall, but I need a moment to gather my courage. I am able to linger in the shadows briefly.

My lord husband is seated by the Lord Denethor, who looks the happier than I have ever seen his grim visage. He wears a wide band about his head, of a metal that is dark and glossy in the lantern light. His robes look as heavy as my dress, brightened only by silver embossing about the long sleeves.

I sweat through my own sleeves, every now and again patting a handkerchief underneath my arms. I do not know how the Lord Steward can stand it, or my husband, who is dressed similarly, but for the addition of light armor and a decorative sword belted at his waist. I knew, from having placed it on him, that despite its airy appearance, it is sharp.

I swallow, and pull myself forward. I have lingered long enough, and it is time for my entrance anyhow. The musicians have struck up a familiar tune, a slow, haunting ballad that seems fitting.

All whispers stop as I pass through the Hall; the jewels and large dresses are all testament to the privilege still left in the White City. I see many familiar faces, but none with whom I am close; I know not where I direct a smile that I know is all too false.

If my lord husband wears actual armor, then I am wearing the sort a woman needs: a pretty face that gives nothing away.

I fight tears, knowing if I show weakness, the pageantry of my entrance is for naught; all at once I feel like I am being first introduced at Court as a maiden. In a sense, I am: I am now the wife of Lord Boromir, the highest Lady of the realm. My circlet sits strongly and painfully at my brow, pulling back any hair that might drift in my face. It is thin and the only jewel it carries is crimson.

When the maids tied it in earlier, they exchanged glances, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not glean why they were so fearful.

At last I reach the chairs. My lord Steward is imposing and no trace of happiness remains; instead, a penetrating stare threatens to wilt my attempt at bravery. His son's face is impassive, though I am grateful to see sympathy in his eyes.

"Greetings to the Lord Denethor," I say.

"Greetings to my new daughter," he answers coolly.

 _Fealty for my country_ , I think, and lift my chin.

"Steward of Gondor, I offer myself, wife and daughter, for the provision of Gondor. Your blessing do I seek, not for my own body, but for the union I have pledged to your son, the Lord Captain of the realm."

I sweep into a curtsey, so deep my knees touch the floor. I can feel the cool marble, but only just; I am impressed with the weight of the heat, the silence of the nobles watching, and the blackness of my Lord Steward's gaze.

He comes forward and touches my neck; his ring, I later discover, leaves an imprint that does not fade for several hours.

"Wife and daughter of Gondor, rise, and receive my," and I notice a pause, imperceptible but for the shuffle of my husband's leather boots, "blessing. May your firstborn be strong and hale, an example of the bloodline of Hurin."

I follow his command and I think I see a faint approval when I match his gaze. But any whisper of it fades as I speak again to his son, with a great deal more warmth.

It has been impressed upon me by my mother, whose late-night meetings with my father have lasted long into the night, that I must be Lady-like…which includes the bearing of children. I do not know for certain all they talked of, but that they found me suitable enough for the Lord Boromir to arrange our marriage.

Although I have known of the Lord Boromir through many songs (who in Gondor had not heard the Tale of Two Swords, or how he fought off three bands of orcs?)– I wonder still at his character. This wonder I keep hidden as I turn to him; my smile becomes more genuine when he nods encouragingly.

As if he knows the doubts I carry.

I am dutiful, and thus far we have been amiable, my husband and I. I admire, I admit, his strong features and the determination that drives him to fight for – for _our_ people.

"To honor, faithfulness, and the bearing of children, I give my body; to Lord Captain of Gondor, my husband, I pledge my fealty. I am no longer of the House of Istuion, but of the renowned line of Hurin."

He smiles and responds, leaving his seat to take my hand. I shiver at his touch; his hand is surprisingly cool, likely from the goblet resting on the tray between the chairs.

"To honor, faithfulness, and the defending of the people, I give my body; to the Lady of Gondor, I pledge my sword. I am no longer only of the House of Hurin, but of the defense of Gondor- and my wife. " He squeezes my fingers, and I am moved by the firmness of his grasp.

A moment passes; I am trapped in his determined gaze, and he is searching my face. For what, I do not know; I have shown him warmth only. Love? Well, one day does not beget love, though I am stirred by his encouraging nod.

"It is my duty," he murmurs. I cannot tell if he finds that favorable or not.

He raises my elbow and rests his hand upon it, turning me to face the Hall. A smile spreads, and then, "To Gondor!" he cries.

Finally, the people respond, breaking the somber formality. "To Gondor!"

The musicians take up a lively reel, and rather than returning to his father, he steers me to the center. "A dance, my wife?" he asks, quite courteously.

I oblige, and learn something about my new husband: he can _dance._

When I need a few minutes' breath in the night air, he removes himself to retrieve a goblet of wine. It has been kept cool by the servants loitering in the shadows, and I thank him with a wordless smile. We walk to the outer edges, by the windows. They are open, and the tiny breeze carries with it the smell of rich earth – a planter, bedecked with a bust of the Lord Boromir himself. He catches my stare at it, and we share our first smile.

"A warm evening, is it not?" he asks me.

I take a sip and swallow, grateful. "Yes," I answer. "I imagine later it will be quite hot."

He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

I had not meant that as it sounded. O, my unwary tongue! All day have I been well with those around me, save for trying to convince the maids to tell me why they were so fearful of the circlet I wore. I have done my duty as a daughter, and I desperately desire a few moments to myself – no guards, no maids, no one.

Before I can apologize, he takes my hand once more, to kiss it lightly. "You will find, my Lady, that you will have relief instead."

I blink; my turn for surprise. Courteous, indeed!

"Let me excuse us to our father," he says, "and perhaps we can adjourn to cooler rooms?" There is no hint of mischief, though he does kiss my hand once more.

He winds his way out of my sight, but not out of my mind.

* * *

I am thankful I do not need to hide any irritation.

"Such astonishment," I breathe between gasps of air I did not need to huff. "My lord, remember much of my role is appearance."

He lifts an eyebrow, but cannot comment: a page in wrinkled livery, no doubt from hurrying around, rushes to my side. His brown eyes widen at the sight of the 'blood' on my dress, and his message is delivered haltingly.

As he speaks, his face drains, and I take pity. I sag a little, as if in weariness, and I reach my other arm to his shoulder. But rather than let my weight fall on him, I sway so he has to grab me.

Varda bless my mother for showing me how to swoon.

"The Prince says to use the – the Porpoise chamber, and that he will be along as soon as he is able. My lord," he directs this over my shoulder, seeming a little better from the use of my arm, "he also said to use what-so-ever you may need. No restrictions."

No restrictions? I do not like that sound of that.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Let me tell you what, I prefer winter over summer.

Disclaimer: I do not own Erchirion, or Dol Amroth, or any recognizable character. Amariel is my creation inasmuch she is a plausible (I hope) player in Tolkien's wondrous world.

Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.

The Captain's Wife

We – the lord Erchirion, the servant, and I - hobble eventually to a room, oddly stuck where a corridor meets a tiny courtyard. For once the sea seems distant, and I am confused as to what part of the sea-palace's wings we are in. The wall sconces seem older here, more ornate; I can see one or two have porpoises engraved in them, their lighted candles within peering through holes for eyes.

 _Clever_ , I think, as I try to maintain a walk between 'insurmountable pain' and 'comfortable'. Pretending pain was becoming easier the longer I tried to maintain the charade – my sides ache and my neck is taut with tension.

The long, narrow door is shut, and the servant slips from my arm to open it. Inside it is, thankfully, cool and dark. A hay mattress, set against a wall, is where I am gently lain. I am grateful for the dark, and though the musty smell makes me gag, at least the mattress eases where I have contorted my muscles.

"Fetch some towels, some hot water, and –" Erchirion lists herbs I am unfamiliar with, ones that at least make sense to the servant. "Be quick about it! If you see my Lord Father, tell him the Lady is safely stowed."

Stowed? What a peculiar choice of words.

The servant bows and leaves, casting one last pale glance at me. The door shuts and for a moment we are in complete blackness.

"Hurry! On your feet! Cast your outer skirts off!" The hisses are commands, but in this particular situation I am not at leisure to disagree. He did tell the servant to make haste, and I swallow my distaste at being ordered about.

I shed the skirt, unhooking the clasp in the back and shimmying my legs until it falls in a soft heap. The stone here is cold, like winter snow, and I shiver.

I can hear movement opposite, but in the darkness I cannot tell what Erchirion is about. "At least tell me what it is you are doing!"

"Take this!" he says, instead of answering, and a moment later I am reaching blindly to catch – a pair of trousers? A tunic, thick and with long sleeves follows. I dress as rapidly as I can, though fingers numbed from both cold and my rapid heartbeat make it difficult.

Sensing I will not receive a response, I focus on buttoning the tunic at the neck – it is the reverse of my usual buttons, and I fumble, suppressing mild oaths. While appropriate, I do not think they would be entirely Lady-like, and I have no desire to give the man any reason to tease.

I hear more rustling, a muffled curse, and finally a metallic groan.

A dim light effects to cast away the darkness, and I can finally make out his figure, grimacing and sweaty; Erchirion has lit a lantern, so rusted it looks impossibly able to hold together. Nonetheless, he is throwing it down – _down_?

"My blessed siblings and I discovered this passage after mischief one evening, and my lord father has seen fit to keep it usable."

A secret passage. I must be in a story-book, a tale of old.

"There are many reasons for this passage here, but chief among them is to escape unseen. We are doing that now. Come!"

Remembering the Prince's admonition earlier, and servants dashing outside in the hall, I do as I am bid. The hole in the floor is made of a heavy door, that in the darkness was all but hidden completely. Whatsoever wood had been used was darkly sturdy, and also used on the creaky ladder that led into a low tunnel.

It is damp, here, and I understand now why I am wearing men's clothing. My dress would be no match for the water trickling down the walls.

"One last trade – here." He reaches beyond the lantern into what appears to be a small alcove, to hand me boots. "They were mine, long ago – and are hardy. We have no time for you to fall."

Biting back a retort, I yank them on, warmer now. However much I dislike the lord before me, he at least is prepared, more prepared than I expected him to be. I hope to ask, given the opportunity, how he came to be thus, given the rapidity with which we were surprised by the messenger. It shall be a tale to add to the one of the accidental Tower destruction from Lothiriel.

The tunnel slopes ever downward, and I do slip in spite of the boots. They fit along my arches, but are longer than my toes, unfamiliar, and unwieldy. More than once I have to press on Erchirion's arm for balance; after trying to catch myself instinctively on the wet wall, he holds it out for me to take told.

As we progress forward, the tunnel gets narrower and narrower, until we are squeezing ourselves between rocks that can only fit one person at a time. My borrowed tunic is smeared with dirt and slime, and I constantly have to rub my forehead with a sleeve to wipe moisture from my cheeks. I dare not look at what color the slime is, knowing that I am better off not knowing what precisely populates the dank tunnel walls.

At last we near the end, and the air gets heavier with the influence of the oppressive Shadow. At the least it is warmer, and once more I am astonished at the thoughtfulness of the errant Erchirion, that I am dressed well.

We leave the tunnel to find ourselves in the same bay that the Prince's study overlooks, where I had seen for myself the ferocity of the waves beating on the _dor-e-galar_. The porpoises are long gone; only gulls greet us, and a small boat, upon which two figures are bent over, busy stowing supplies.

 _The Princess is safely stowed away._

Feeling foolish, I sigh. Of course. The phrase is innocuous enough in shore-folk language, no doubt commonly used, but the Prince would understand where Erchirion and I had gone, had likely even anticipated us to leave this way.

The two figures straighten on our approach, and I am unsurprised to see Princess Lothiriel, but I am taken aback at her companion.

It is one of the maids who has been serving me, and whose eyes gleam brightly. "Wendlyn! Whatever are you doing here? I thought no one was to know…"

The princess pulls me aboard, warning me about the unlevel nature of the deck, and replying all in one breath. "She looks like you from a distance and will be taking your part for a time. She was the only one who was willing to try."

Take my part? _Oh_. That is why my clothes were not immediately scooped up by Erchirion, why he had left them behind. I had considered such a thing, but dismissed it – I did not know anyone well to ask, nor did I even have time to communicate the idea.

If the impudent beast had been thoughtful, then his sister is extraordinarily perceptive. That she not only found, carried, and stored supplies, she carried the plan further than I could, in the half-hour or more since we had last seen one another.

"But, Wendy – you must understand the risk. Your life could change for the worse – you could – " I am having a hard time understanding why a maid, who has known me briefly, is willing to move forward in a plan that was developed only hours prior.

"You are the Lady Captain, miss," she says, returning my gaze with a fierce one of her own. "And you carry the future of us all." She reaches her hand forward gently, to place on my abdomen. "That is worth more than I can possibly give, if it can help give our people hope."

Our people.

I am touched, and tears start to fall, belying my intention to remain focused on the task at hand. Sensing too much emotion, the lord Erchirion clears his throat. "We must – we must leave now, if we have a chance of getting to the island. Lothiriel – take especial care in Court."

His sister nods, and throws her arms around her brother. "Osse be with you, brother."

"And with you, my little lobster." He squeezes her tightly, just, and releases her in one fluid motion, and steps aboard beside me.

Here it is, then.

I am not overly affectionate, raised as I was in the White Court, where cunning is valued above all. Nonetheless, I reach a hand across the slowly increasing gap.

"May the Valar be with you both," I say somberly, voice catching. "Thank you."

My fingers just brush theirs, and then we are away on the waves.

* * *

The stables are cramped with activity, a band of soldiers readying to ride out, once more, to follow and kill the Orcs raiding the farms along the Anduin. Reports of increased violence have been steadily flowing across my lord Boromir's desk; however much he tries to protect me, I see them anyhow. The messages that I would ordinarily receive are filled with new pleas for fresh supplies of bandages, ointments, and potions for pain. Some even request spells from the magic-maker on the Fifth Circle, whomever that might be. I have lived within the upper Circles most of my life, with the echelons of our society. Those beneath us did not have our notice, most physically.

I regret it, now, because I have no reply for the messages, nor recourse. I cannot be seen going to such a place, nor can I sneak out, for the emblem of the Captain-General, with a flowery addition, is added to nearly every article I own. To be able to offer so little aid, to those who would die for our country – inexplicably I start to cry, and I flee that my lord husband does not see me thus.

Seeking refuge against the dark thoughts, I hide in the stall of my horse, Maerwen; I ride every now and again, and my horse is mild-mannered as she is lovely, the color of clay on a potter's wheel, with a pale mane. She is happy to receive my attentions, even happier a brushing, and gradually I calm.

It is in the midst of this calm the soldiers arrive to saddle their horses. Surrounded as I am by such fervor, I do not hear steps behind me, and the touch upon my shoulder has me whirling defensively, wielding the soft brush.

"Hold!" calls my lord husband, laughing. "I meant not to startle my lady-wife."

I relax. No harm can truly come to me here, though I am yet indignant. "Should you want survive to provide an heir, my lord, I suggest you do not surprise me again!" I think briefly of my missing cycle, but attribute it to my growing time in the Houses; more and more arrive, as the bouts with the Orcs increase. My time is spent seeing horrendous wounds, wounds that leave me sick and my dreams restless.

"Death by brush. I hope the songs will remember me well," he answers my indignance, removing the brush from my hand – almost tenderly, it seems. He keeps a hold of my hand, courteously offering a small kiss. "I come to bid you dine with me, privately, tonight."

"Privately? We were expected at Lady Herenya's to-night. She has some reports, she says, of an intriguing nature."

He pauses, and I see a flicker of uncertainty. He seems peculiarly torn. "My lord, what bothers you?"

"I think her reports can wait for the morn. I wish – I wish for time with my lady-wife. We have crossed paths little, in the past day."

This is as much he has said to me as ever, more open than I have ever heard him be. Close examination reveals fatigue, slumped shoulders, and smudged ink across his knuckles. Whatever is bothering him is upsetting him deeply.

And I would appreciate time with my husband. He has been often with the soldiers, of late, and closeted longer with the Steward. Messengers have handed him large stacks, of both vellum and parchment, such that his desks in both the study and our shared bedchamber are piled high. Organized carefully, but there were hardly any books in the Library of the Stewards that were thicker.

"Yes, I will dine with you, husband. Send for me as you are able." I curtsey deeply, and blush to receive one more courteously-given kiss.

"Til' the evening, then." Another, last, kiss, and he is gone.

I stare after him, watching his broad shoulders carry what seem to be a heavy weight.

* * *

 _-to be continued-_


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Tension builds here, tension that is part of the crux of Amariel's tale. She is her own person; she is also, however, a wife to the most honorable of men…who means well.

(aside: I am also a sap.)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this. It is for my own entertainment, and hopefully yours.

Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.

The Captain's Wife

I grip the rail of the boat, letting my mind drift. It keeps away the nausea churning in my stomach, and certainly serves as a distraction from my ever-present worry of the Lord Steward Denethor, and the chains that seem to clink endlessly.

 _If he discovers you hid the Heir from him, you might find yourself in more than chains,_ warns the snide voice. I jump, a little; it has been silent, and I thought my wariness had faded to focus. Alas, not; I snap irritably back, _The Lord Steward would not dare to set me in his dungeons. He would have to answer to his son._

 _His son might not be able to remove you, or would he even_ want _to?_ Is the reply, and I cough, fighting nausea that this time did not stem from the waves below.

I did not desire to recall the night before my husband left. I wanted to take the pain, and lock it away, until such time as I could lick my one of my deepest wounds in peace. He had been kind, courteous, everything a wife could ask for, save in one respect.

My stomach roils again, and I dry-heave, struggling to keep the bile and remnants of dinner from leaving over the side. The impudent beast glances at me, even as he continues to manage the steering. "We can have ginger tea, when we get to the island," he says, and it is the softest I have seen his gaze – sympathy, rather than amusement or condescension. "In the meantime, think of other things."

As if I could do anything else. I am no sea-woman, or river-daughter; despite Minas Tirith's guard outpost of Osgiliath, only of a few of the White City's denizens ever learn to sail. My father was not one, and my brother, had he lived, would not have, either.

The waves seem never-ending. My grip on the rails grows tighter, and finally I do lose my dinner, rather unceremoniously. My tunic soaks with sea-spray and, well, chunks, and I continue to heave until tears stream forth, their saltiness joining the muck of my appearance.

 _Ai, Valar_. We had discussed my offering a gift to the Vala of the sea, and this certainly was a most poor one. Dinner, and the memory of a broken heart.

* * *

I am hanging up the saddle brush and soap when I am summoned. Sadron, likely the most portly servant in Middle-Earth, serves my husband personally. Some debt that must be repaid, I heard my lady-maids once whisper, but when I questioned my lord Boromir, he laughed a little and said not to listen to idle gossip.

However portly he is, Sadron has manners more graceful than much of the Court. He waits patiently while I lock again Maerwen's box, commenting that Maerwen looks well-taken after. "The grooms ride her when I cannot," I tell him, giving her one last affectionate pat, and a promise to bring a treat or two the next time.

As he leads me up from the stables, he describes his encounters with a stubborn donkey, more stubborn than any creature he has come across. I am set naturally at ease, and wonder again at his courtliness – he escorts me more than leads or guides, as a servant might be urged to do. Then again, even with the natural guards given to all the Steward's family, all the male servants in my presence behave rather lordly. On the younger, it is an amusing affectation, meant to impress, while on the older, it is considered 'the thing to do' in respect of my station.

Sadron leaves me at the door to the antechamber. "Your Captain-General waits for you in your solar. He wishes to dine there, to-night, and as your ladies are dismissed for the evening, you shall have total privacy."

"I will find him soon, then. Thank you, Sadron." He bows and adjourns down the hall, whistling quietly.

I enter the antechamber with a sense of – apprehension. My husband does not dine privately; with the Lord Steward continually making plans, and keeping a watchful eye on our darkening borders, many nights he and I have supped within the Steward's suites. On those occasions when the Lord Steward does not seek my presence, I will dine with my ladies-in-waiting.

Tonight was to be one of the rare evenings when my lord husband and I were to dine out together. Lady Herenya impressed upon me she had reports of an intriguing nature, reports that concerned both my husband, and myself. She desired to dine with us both under the assumption she would share news, and, as she told me two days prior, to effect a plan to undermine whomever was circulating them.

To that end, I would send a note with my unexpected decline of the invitation, and an appointment to reschedule. If the reports she wished to share were genuinely alarming, she would find a way to meet with me. A swish of a borrowed pen from my husband's desk, a ringing of the bell – and the errand is done, performed by a young maid with rosy cheeks.

I turn to my wardrobes, thinking. The evening is crisp, somewhere between warm and cool; change might be upon us soon. I shiver, and choose a lighter dress of warm golds and browns that I am able to dress myself into, without need of a maid. If my husband should desire privacy, then I should, especially given the warnings of my instinct.

Moments later, I am at the solar. Two guards, on either side of the door, nod as they usher me inside.

My solar has the peculiarity of not being truly mine. Lona, my oldest lady-in-waiting, shared with me that long before she was widowed, she had served at the behest of the Lady Finduilas, the Steward's wife, in this very room. The good Lady had had the solar built specifically to see the skies in either morning or evening, raining or on clear days. "She found much comfort here," Lona confided over her needlepoint.

As I do. A lover of starlight, I had found the solar to be inviting most especially in the evenings, when Arda's skies were blanketed with gems, some brighter than others, some a faint glimmer, all beautiful.

To-night is especially breath-taking. The summer rains gave way to polished skies, the clear blue of the day fading to the rich darkness of the night. Dropping my gaze from the glass above, I see a wide table, spread with a veritable feast – feasts of the dishes I most often partook.

My husband stands beside it. "Amariel, welcome," he says, gesturing. "I took the liberty of choosing a supper you might like best. Does it – does it agree with you?"

I peer at him. Is he nervous – does he know - ?

It has been growing in my mind, a subtle thought. My time in the Houses have exposed me to the fondest of welcome-homes and the bitterest of fare-wells. Each inspired in me a sort of unease, a sort of pleasure – unease that while my affection for my husband grew, he knew it not; a pleasure that each night he was home, we yet shared the same bed, the same intimacies the soldiers who passed on left behind.

How does one describe a love that is not yet ripe, a plant that needs a little more nurturing? I knew little of the heart, my instructions as a girl-child limited to the wiles and wooing as tools. This – this feeling was altogether new, sweet, bitter, surprising and yet – he is the Captain-General. No more honorable man could be found, no more courteous, and – I faintly blush – certainly not a better lover.

I have not even said the words aloud to myself, much less within hearing of any servant who wished to fuel the stream of gossips flowing to and from Court. No, this is nervousness of another kind, and the warnings in my heart pound hard.

"It does agree," I say, with a smile that feels all too wide. "But – if I may ask – why are we here tonight?"

He pulls out my chair, brushing my shoulders, and my hair as I sit. I settle my skirts, and see that a place is laid before me: simple, just a plate and goblet and fork. Perfectly to my taste; my husband knew I abhorred the extravagance of the Courtly suppers.

Not until has he poured mulled wine, and taken his own seat, does he answer, and not entirely truthfully, I deem. "We are rarely together so alone, and I wished to see my wife beneath the stars. Such beauty cannot compare, of course; I do not know how Yavanna and the other Valar stand it." His grin is as becoming as his flattery.

"A pretty compliment, to be sure!" I blush crimson. If he is indeed seeking to woo me, then he is certainly on the correct path. I am as vain as the next woman, and flattery is, for me, effective, especially from my husband whose words on the matter to me are seldom.

I sip at my wine, attempting to cool my cheeks and chase the blush away. It w _as_ a pretty answer, but not entirely the answer I sought. It has bought time, however, and I am suitably distracted. Thus we begin to eat at some of my favorites: gently roasted meats, plenty of fruit, and a rich soup I drink from its own tiny bowl of bread.

We talk lightly, and teasingly; such talk as we had not have had before. He tells me of his mother, his fleeting memories of her, rocking him to sleep in this room when he had nightmares. I tell him of my father, and my first attempt at calculations, an error which led to the accidental purchase of pigskin. Its use, I discovered rather mortifyingly discovered, was for the marital bed.

My lord Boromir roars with laughter. "I dare say your father had a difficult time explaining that away!"

"Not so much – it led to the birth of my younger sister nine months later!"

I laugh too, feeling oddly free in this discourse. Is this what marriage is meant to be like?

Sensing my change in mood, he rises from our table, with a hand outstretched. It is altogether a picturesque moment: the starlight above, the candles adding to the lights; his tunic and pants, which I notice are of a soft silk, hued to match his eyes. "If you are finished, a dance, my wife?"

The request is reminiscent of our wedding ball. Knowing now how well a dancer he is, I accept his hand with a pleased grin. "Of course – but with what music?"

"Our own," he answers, mysteriously. "Do you know the tune –" and he names a popular waltz, common among balls. Leaning my head against his shoulder I nod, and hum a little of it.

"Good," he breathes against my neck, and hums himself.

 _Oh_. This is such sweetness. We sway to the rhythm of our shared song, and a sense of peace, previously unfamiliar, wraps me in a blanket, softly. I do not know when I close my eyes, or when it is we trail off the humming and simply dance around the floor in silence, accompanied only by the rustle of my skirts and his sure steps.

The candles burn down to a soft glow, and Ithil rises, a dreamy crescent. This must be a dream, it must be, to feel at last affection. I can tell him. I must tell him – never has there been a better moment. It is _us_ , no servants, no Steward's black mutters.

I lift my head to look back at him, and we match gazes. Does he see? Dare I say what has been pressing on my spirit, what I have only recently known?

"My lady-wife, my Amariel," he murmurs, and a different sort of thrill runs down my spine. "I leave early, in the morning."

* * *

 _-to be continued-_


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: This is, in part, of what leads Amariel to be in such doubt of her husband's affection.  
The delay has been longer than usual – months. I have little excuse but that of mental illness, and a darkness which descended that is difficult to fight.

Disclaimer: None of _Lord of the Rings_ is mine, and I cannot claim the vastness of intelligence and depth of mind that created it.

Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.

The Captain's Wife

 _What?_

I pull away, the peace that had settled upon me broken; but he has a tight hold of my wrist, my pulse at his fingers hammering. "Do you remember what our father has said to me, of my dreams?"

Yes, I did remember, too well; nights in which my lord husband woke, sweating, my only recourse to bring him the chilled water kept in our outer rooms. He would take a page with him to the Steward's chambers, and I would fall asleep alone, beset by anxiety and restlessness. As it was, Lady Herenya was more than earning her keep as my chief lady-in-waiting, fueling gossip not with tales of nightmares, but of our marital bed. It was enough to keep the worst questions at bay.

That was neither there nor there, however; it was what our father was asking him to do. The Lord Steward Denethor had described to my husband a singular errand, to find the Bane of which his dreams never made clear. Ever did I hear my husband speak in his sleep, but I did not imagine the errand to be a near one, or one taken so suddenly. It had seemed a far-off prospect, and I had not seen any sign of his warhorse prepared earlier.

"I ride tomorrow, for the north. To seek the answer among the learned who is said to reside there."

"I did not see Alagos being prepared." My voice is stiff, despite my trembling. Whether it is anger, or disappointment, I cannot tell for certain; a likely mixture of both.

"I am not taking him; his broad chest and marked coloring is distinctive. I am taking another fellow's horse." Unspoken goes the understanding he does not want to be recognized by the Enemies that lurk always for those of Gondor.

"What of me?"

I gesture to the mostly-eaten supper, the candles that are melting slowly and whose glow now seems too ridden with shadow. My eyes are burning, but they are, for now, dry.

"What of you?"

I forcibly remove myself from his grip, angry. To think that I was, at last, being wooed by the man I married, seems in total error. His expression is puzzled, as if I he does not understand why I would ask.

"You will manage, as before. I know you to be capable of taking care of yourself – and our people."

"I did not know my capability was ever in question."

"It was not," he says, wearily. Examining him critically, I suddenly see the faint bruising under his eyes, the scrubbings on his knuckles; some dark ink still remains. I want to brush it away, brush the thought of managing the Steward on my own far, far away.

"Is that all, my lord husband?" I ask. My heart is aching inside me, painfully; my chest is tight and it feels like I cannot breathe. I want to find a place to soften it, to nurture the gash that seems to have opened wide. How fruitless it seems to have hoped to be wooed properly, by this man who carries too much on his broad shoulders.

I was not immune to the love stories of old. Who has not heard of Beren and Luthien, their Lay that bespoke of tragedy and triumph? Who did not hear the songs of warriors and wives, of farmers and fields? Foreigners say our country is staid, and reserved; while there is truth to those sayings, it is also true that deep reserve hides deep feeling. Sitting around a hearth revealed both love and loss, particularly in the long winter nights, when all seemed cold and still.

He studies me, and I fight to keep my expression calm. "I think that is not all, lady-wife," he says, and his voice is gentler than I thought it might have been. "We may not yet have full warmth between us, yet I see upon your face some distress. Will you not confide in me?"

I am reluctant, wanting to shield the tender offshoot in my heart; yet my tongue works faster than I can help, and my anger spills over.

"I respect your opinion of me, lord, but is your estimation of my capabilities all you know of me? I know your habits, your dreams, your love of our people. I honor that in every way possible, though it comes to naught!"

"Comes to naught? How do you mean?" Genuine surprise…I cannot believe...! Has he so little thought for me in his life? His soldiers come first, I know, but I had _hoped, oh I had hoped -_

"We have been distant, husband; if you are not among the barracks, you are with the Lord Steward," and here I am unable to restrain my bitterness, "and too many nights have I fallen asleep, alone but for the shadows that creep in from the night."

"You know why - " he starts, but with a swipe of my hand I bid him silent, and he unexpectedly complies, with a silence, that, to me, is difficult to interpret.

"Perhaps I ought to make myself clear. After all, it does not do to leave words unspoken between us. Especially," and at last my voice cracks, "especially on the eve of your departure. Hear me now, and let not my heart be foreign to you."

I pause for a breath. The air in the solar is thick with tension. As the servants say, it could be rendered through with a knife. Ithil glitters through the windows, and irony of the could-have-been rises sharply; I quell it enough to speak again, setting my gaze on the beautiful scene outside rather than the awkward, painful one within.

" ' _If I am the splendor of the skies, then you are the splendor of the city, my lord;  
none can match your strength, or your fortitude:  
you gleam brighter than the Tower of Ecthelion;  
you are a jewel among men.  
When your voice is on the wind, so mine answers;  
we are the harmony of the night._'"

It is a poetry from an older age, a more Romantic age, when love was celebrated in and out of the Court. When farmers and courtiers alike married for shared affectation, when the future of Gondor seemed bright and whole. The author's name was stained from wear in the volume I memorized, but the stanzas were legible yet.

"We married for duty, husband: however, as the age darkens, my heart lightens in your presence. You are an honorable man, Boromir," and his name is as a sigh, "and so I place myself before you. The Lady Captain – and yes, I am familiar with the title - is not a soldier, but a wife, first and foremost, and as a wife, I entrust my dearest possession in your hands."

I pull from my bodice a piece of vellum, kept for this occasion. What hopes I had were dying; at least he could have this with him, to whatever fate he meets in the north. It has warmed almost hot with my sweat, though fortunately the ink has not bled. "This is a copy of the _Song of the Lovers' Hope._ For two days have I known my heart true, and when you asked me to dinner to-night, I planned to read it aloud."

I place it carefully on the table, keeping a certain distance between us. I am not able to bear his expression: inscrutable and closed, I can see his resemblance to Lord Denethor; with an inward start I realize he _is_ the next Steward. His brows are drawn together; all I discern is a wary thoughtfulness.

"Since you are leaving in the morning, I ask instead that you take it with you. Let it be a token – a token of my genuine affection."

Three words, that is all that is left. When he makes no move toward the vellum, but folds his arms with the damnable inscrutable gaze, I swallow them back, and say instead:

"Wake me if you wish, husband, if you desire to receive a fond farewell."

I turn away, and the sound of my shoes against the floor echo. The door behind me shuts with more restraint than I thought possible. With my hands shaking so badly I have to stuff them in my skirts, I make my way to our shared bed.

I am able to shed hot tears at long last, bitter to my tongue, but muffled; it would not do for the servants to hear me cry. For an hour, I lie with my legs curled, clenching my pillow tightly, not wanting the heaviness of the quilts, but neither desiring to be as chilled as I would be without them. When I still do not hear his footsteps, or feel his weight behind me dip the mattress, I let myself fall into an empty sleep. No dreams, but I would rather the nightmares over the utter grey veil.

When I wake, the sun is risen far into the sky, gleaming on a deserted pillow. The scent of his leather polish lingers.

* * *

I heave, but the pain of the salt and vomit stings my throat. Erchirion glances at me, the weathered lines around his eyes deeply creased. Concern, perhaps, but between the painful thudding of my heart and my the swilling of my stomach, my attention is only on the nausea. "We are near to shore," he says. "You will be on dry – well, dry-ish – land soon."

And I see the rocky crags, the way the waves swell and crash; the outcroppings are shiny, with moss and damp, and I wonder at the footing I might have.

 _-to be continued-_


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: Poor Amariel. Poor Boromir. What a stiff situation to be in, and to be so far removed from one another…

Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.

The Captain's Wife

A solid _bump_ indicates we have come to dock, at a narrow jut of stone; shining with moisture, there is an unusual hollowing in the middle: tread from many generations of keepers, I suppose. Though the boat still rocks with the waves, it is improved over the intense movement previously, and slowly my attention is drawn away from my stomach to my new surroundings.

The _dor-e-galar_ is larger than it appeared from Prince Imrahil's study. The lighthouse itself, a tall tower painted a sterling white, is a fair distance away yet. Where the waves crash there is little plant life, but I can see, barely, a tiny beach far to the left, whose sand is spotted with unidentifiable growth. We did not dock there, and I have to wonder why – I store the question away for when I can think without heartache, and, more presently, stomachache.

Inland, where the tower rests, is long grass, of a kind I had never seen before. Already curiosity grows and despite my overall unease I can feel a bewildering excitement. While in the Healing Houses, I learned of herbs and spices that stimulate healing, and in environs such as this, I wonder what could flourish.

Erchirion leaps gracefully out, and before I have a chance to protest, holds out his left arm. "It is slippery, but if you trust me, I will keep you upright. With no teasing," he adds, sensing without having to look my stern, albeit still nauseated, warning glare.

Though his clothes are damp with sea salt, he appears to care little that I splash him as I stumble ashore. It _is_ slippery, and as ill as I feel, I do not bother to stifle my oaths. True to his word, Erchirion says nothing; yet as I continue to grasp his arm I notice amused, lifted eyebrows and a slight dimple in one cheek.

"Thank you for the boots, my lord," I say, stifling a wince from the pain and mild embarrassment. My poor mother would be shocked at my utter lack of elegance. While I am preserved from falling totally forward, the way is treacherous with boots overlong for my toes. Nevertheless, we are completely on land within moments, and while I gather myself – "no sealegs, but you will get them" – Erchirion hefts the front of the boat alone.

I gape, for his frame does not at all suggest his strength. Another question to ask, I sigh, and I know that one of the ways I will have to spend time is talking.

Finally the boat is secure, and I am no longer as wobbly, having taken the time to pace about to ease both stomach and leg cramps. Over protestations I am recovered, Erchirion takes my arm _again_ , and we follow a path that rises gently up and over the slope of the craggy rocks. The waves continue to spray, even this further in, and I can taste salt across my lips. There's a murky undertone to it, almost sour, and I think again of what Princess Lothiriel and Prince Imrahil explained about the illness of the seas.

Eventually the path slopes sharply, to a fenced path, strewn with loose stone and the same long grass. And there! looming, is the _dor-e-galar_. Closer now, I see paint peeling across the stones, downy moss growing in the cracks, and peculiarly colored pebbles scattered across the base. I am astonished to see it so tall, taller than I imagined, and the Prince's description of it seems – understated.

"Just a few storerooms?" I murmur. Erchirion, still beside me, laughs a little. "Well, when you have four or more men alone on an isle, they become hungry." I sense without asking a need for no further questions for the time being.

Feeling improved with firmer footing, I step ahead to knock at the door. The door itself is large, also, wooden hewn with the image of the White Tree and its stars – the stars are embedded glass, glass that would no doubt that would catch light if the sun were high. The knocker is part of the tree, bisecting it; when I raise the heavy iron, I have a peculiar sense of appropriation, as if I were dividing my country.

 _That is the Shadow's doing_ , I remind myself sternly. _You have no role in it._

 _Or do you?_ asks the snide voice. Surprised, I tilt my head to either side. For many hours I have not heard the sarcastic wit, lost as I was in my abrupt, hectic removal from the seat of Dol Amroth. I should have known better, as the voice has been a companion these recent days.

The recriminating voice continues. _After all, you_ chose _to leave the White City, without informing your ladies-in-waiting, who even now are imprisoned._ No, I think, they cannot be. Lady Herenya has enough influence that she could prevent the others from being hurt. So I have told myself continually, since the night I first slipped away.

But does she? The White Court is not known for protecting others – only cutting them down, at the peak of intrigue. What with Lord Boromir's mysterious departure – none but me, a stablehand (routinely responsible for the saddling of Alagos who then was not taken), and the Lord Steward knew of it presently – and then my own, the Court would be aflame with talk. My ladies would indeed be at risk.

How much? I ask myself. The Lord Steward was noble in bearing, and indeed, my Lord Boromir took after his distinct compass of justice: yet the times are dark…and the Steward's temperament darker.

* * *

A month since my lord husband has left - and a month since my heart, tender as it was in newfound appreciation and affection previously unknown, was broken. It has been a bleary month, in which I have fulfilled my duties and more, with little enthusiasm. The Lord Steward has been peering at me over meals (with my husband gone, I am obliged to dine with his father privately) though no ill words have passed between us. I cannot fathom what he sees: a pale wife? A sickly wife? A longing wife?

It is curious he has not spoken as he might ordinarily, however; some restraint upon him keeps our conversations _almost_ pleasant. At the very least, he is not entirely cold in manner and speech, until one early evening, an evening that sinks my heart even further.

We speak of the requests of the soldiers regularly, and I keep accounts of dwindling supplies. Orcs are in every province now, except that of the City, and the seat of Dol Amroth. Rumors run through the Court special magicks protect those living by the Sea, but when I bring them to Lord Denethor's attention, he waves them aside.

"It is not magicks that protects the sea," he says to me. I have pushed the question again, so I can hush the gossip from Lady Herenya. "Indeed, wizardry has no place there." Here, he scowls and shoves his plate aside; he has eaten as little as I have. With a growl, he orders the waiting attendant to take the supper away.

"You are not eating. A wife should eat," he points out as the skinny man removes our dishes. In my peripheral, I see the attendant frowning down at them. I must make time to see him and the cooks: they will think the Steward was displeased with the cooking. In fact, there is nothing amiss with the cooking itself, meager though the table gets (meager, perhaps, for the Steward: he yet has fresh fruits, warm breads and meats though they are in substantially smaller portions).

"It is a slight illness, nothing more, my lord," I answer, cordially, though with a noticeable glance at his mostly-full plate. I have been fighting nausea and chills throughout the afternoon, and food did not increase my appetite; it had rather the opposite effect. I do not have the wherewithal to point out I have no husband to be wifely _with_ , thanks to his father's command of errand.

I feel so badly, I have not sipped the wine. I enjoy a fine wine, and certainly in my life have tasted some of Gondor's best. One year in particular from the Western vineyards was so successfully fermented that it remains popular among the Court in trading for favors.

"That is as well," he says, rising. I rise in response – even if I am feeling unwell, etiquette demands I remain not at table if the Steward leaves it – and follow him. "Come." It is a command.

He leads me to the Great Hall, where he stands before his seat, as if in thought. The throne, several steps higher than his own chair, seems remote in the dimness of the hour. The flickering of the torches lining the hall enhances both chairs' shadows. I watch, fascinated, as the shadow of the throne shrinks; the shadow of the Steward's seat grows and appears to absorb it. With a blink the illusion disappears and the shadows remain dancing normally.

"The Enemy is growing in strength and numbers," the Lord Steward suddenly speaks. His words echo, though his pitch is low. "We cannot face it alone. Nor can we sit idly by while the fires of Mordor blaze at our doorstep!" He turns abruptly, muttering something I cannot make out. "What news from the Captains?"

I blink. We had gone over the Captains' requests only two nights ago. "Osgiliath is well and truly under constant battle from the orcs. Though Lords Faramir and Boromir worked well together, since my lord husband's departure, the men there are scattered. They write of too many orcs and injuries, and too few rations."

"Always too few," he mutters blackly, and I draw up indignantly. Raised as I was with ledger-learning, I was not incapable of managing accounts. "I have sent all supplies with due care, my Lord Steward," I say stiffly.

"We are at war, daughter. We must do more!" Pale hands tighten on the chair; they seem thin, sharp, deadly even.

"We are doing as much as we are able," I say, disconcerted by the inherent threat of his hands. "The Healers have sewn bandages and slings, commissioned crutches, and collected blankets from the widows who serve as seamstresses. The Captains are careful in their numerations, and they send those ledgers in duplicate or triplicate: to Lords Faramir, Boromir, and of late, myself. What more _can_ we do?"

"There is more," he repeats. He lifts his chin, oddly resolute. "When you receive the next Captain's accounts, bring them to me. You are dismissed from managing their accounts. "

"My lord!"

I am breathless. I have taken such notice of all details as I could, speaking with those in the barracks – though my station requires only I speak with officers – as well as merchants. I had learned from my younger ladies-in-waiting who held back the best produce and meats, and through them, how to bargain a (mostly) fair amount to send to the fields of war. What influence I had I had used it in every respect.

"Are you questioning my authority?" His question is civil, but cold – as icy as the springs that thaw from the mountains as winter wanes.

I shiver, and he must know it, for his grimace becomes a satisfied smile. "It will be done, my Steward," I murmur, with as deep a curtsey as I can manage. With my head bowed, I hear rather than see his shuffling from the Chair to position directly in front of me.

Cool metal touches my neck and weighs there, stilling the shiver, but freezing my heart in place.

"Rise, daughter. Go now to the Houses, where you may take your place. We need all where they are _most_ useful."

Without lifting my head, I straighten, and back out from the Great Hall, sick in more than my heart. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing my stomach turn completely over, nor the flush of my tell-tale indignation.

* * *

I flush again in memory. How much more will I be deserving of his wrath? My 'miscarriage' will protect me for as long as the ruse goes undiscovered; but my ladies, who can tell him nothing of my whereabouts, will bear the direct effect of his machinations.

I do not have time to bear the thought out to its conclusion, for the doors open to reveal a burly man, with thick curly hair and a broad smile. "Supplies at last!" he exclaims, head turned over his shoulder to another I cannot see.

His smile falls as he faces us, seeing in front of him a rather unorthodox and unexpected pair: an unfit-for-sea Lady and the son of his Prince.

* * *

- _to be continued_ -


End file.
